


Derplock: John's Blog

by Emilybells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-03-06 14:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3137393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilybells/pseuds/Emilybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scottie and Emily's adventures in BBC London continue as they help Sherlock and John take on a series of cases overlooked by their favorite TV show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tilly Briggs Cruise of Derp

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This series is a spinoff of Derplock. If you haven't seen the original yet, I highly suggest you start there (link can be found on my page).

\---

It was pouring rain. The days were getting shorter, with the darkness that blanketed London before even 5 o'clock providing proof of that, and lights from inside shop windows glistened off of the wet ground. Sherlock and his flatmates were currently standing under an awning hanging from the building they'd just come out of. Emily shivered and clung to the crease of the detective's elbow.

Sherlock shifted his gaze down towards her. "Cold," she whimpered. John looked over from where he was standing beneath an umbrella less than a foot away and smiled a little.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed slowly. He looked annoyed, but he didn't pull away either, so he couldn't have been all that bothered by the gesture. "A typical attribute whenever water falls from the sky."

"Not cold, just want cuddles," Scottie said and latched himself to Sherlock's other side. Sherlock held in a breath for a moment and then exhaled dramatically.

"Rain doesn't always mean cold," muttered Emily. "Hawaii, for instance." She stared forward distractedly as she spoke, watching the occasional car pass by and splash up a small tidal wave in the process. "In Hawaii it rains so frequently and so lightly that sometimes it'll still be warm and sunny out."

Sherlock pursed his lips but didn't respond.

Scottie leaned forward a bit to see Emily past Sherlock. "We aren't in Hawaii," he pointed out.

"No. No, I didn't think so."

The group was then quiet for some time. The rain was heavy and loud, smacking against the pavement and running down the street's curb like a river. Emily started to slide her hands further down Sherlock's arm until they nestled tightly around the man's wrist inside of his coat pocket, as if she were attempting to sap up whatever remaining body heat he had.

Sherlock stiffened. "Do you want my gloves?" he offered, although it was difficult to tell from his tone whether he was being sincere or sarcastic.

"No, but thank you," Emily answered regardless.

John shifted his weight and looked down at his wristwatch with a frown. "I don't think a cab is coming," the man finally concluded, looking up at Sherlock. "Suppose they're busier in weather like this?"

"Maybe we can try calling again?" offered Scottie.

Sherlock scanned his eyes across the scene as if making sure that their taxi wasn't just about to pull up. "We could probably walk. We aren't all that far from Baker Street."

"But John's the only one who brought an umbrella!" whined Emily.

"Then I suggest you walk quickly." Sherlock then tried to pull his hands from his pockets, which Scottie and Emily pushed back in and gripped tighter with a determined "no." Sherlock frowned and attempted to take a step. All three of them moved forward ever so awkwardly. "John. Help."

"Your problem, not mine!" John sang and gave his umbrella a little twirl over his head as he started further down the block.

Grumbling something inaudible, Sherlock waddled after him with the teens dragging along at his sides. They stopped at the curb and waited momentarily for the walk sign to come on, at which point Sherlock made an attempt to tiptoe around a particularly big puddle in the crosswalk. Emily, who was wearing rain boots, trudged straight through it, completely oblivious to the water that she had caused to seep into the boys' shoes. At the first opportunity Sherlock retaliated by shoving the girl underneath a waterfall that was gushing out from a rain gutter. Emily shrieked and leapt a full foot out of the splash zone.

Scottie started to cackle wildly at this. Grinning wickedly, Sherlock said "You turn!" and swept the boy off of his feet effortlessly.

"Wait no stop!" Scottie flailed, his smile quickly fading. Ignoring his protests, Sherlock set him down again directly under the gutter's consistent spew of cold water.

John had gotten much further down the block than them because of this, but he stopped and turned to face them. "Look at you skinny wet idiots playing in the rain," mused the doctor.

Scottie, Sherlock, and Emily, who were all equally soaked by this point, exchanged glances and then looked back towards John, who had apparently figured out what they were scheming and took off running.

The three of them darted after him, failing to suppress laughter, all the while running right through a 'don't walk' light. A block and a half later Sherlock caught up to John and snatched away his umbrella. The man yelped as Scottie and Emily wrapped their arms tightly around the older man. With a slight whimper in the back of his throat, John hung his head and accepted his cold and wet fate.

A puddle had gathered on the landing and followed the foursome in the form of a trail of water up the stairs and into 221B Baker Street. Shoes were immediately removed and thrown in a pile on top of one another in the corner of the living room. Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and removed his gloves before shaking out his hair like a dog that had just taken a bath. He threw himself down in his armchair. Scottie followed suit and then wrapped himself up in a blanket on the couch. John had gone into the kitchen and started hearing up a kettle.

"Can we turn this thing on?" Emily asked, squatting down in front of the fireplace.

John came back in to have a look at it. "Oh. Geez, does that even work? I think it's electric." The man got onto his knees beside her and attempted to figure out how to light the fireplace.

Sherlock had started removing his socks and wrung each out over the rug. He let them fall to the floor beside his chair and clenched and unclenched his toes a couple times. John had apparently figured out the fireplace by then, because it crackled to life all at once and helped to light up the otherwise gloomy room.

A whistling noise sounded from the kitchen and John jumped up again to go deal with the tea. Sherlock let out a long and almost too-relaxed sigh and melted further into his armchair. Similarly, Emily slid onto her stomach in front of the fireplace.

John came back in with two mugs. He handed one off to Scottie and then Sherlock, respectively, and then went back into the kitchen to fetch the remaining two and set one of those down beside Emily. Once he had finished distributing the tea John finally had a seat in his own armchair.

“Nothing quite like a warm cuppa beside the fireplace while it’s raining outside,” the man mused.

“Someone tell a story!” Scottie suddenly exclaimed. He was sitting upright now and had the blanket draped over his shoulders.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked up slightly. “A story?” he echoed.

“Yeah. Read us a book, or… I don’t know, make something up. Or tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Alternatively you can turn on the telly or something.”

“Well you’re no fun,” Scottie grumbled into his mug.

“So,” John said slowly. He pursed his lips for a moment and then glanced over at Emily, who had sat up just enough to drink her tea. “How’s your leg doing? I haven’t heard you complain about it for nearly a week now.”

“Um. Well, at this point I don’t think the mark is ever going away,” shrugged Emily. “But I can walk normally without OD’ing on Advil first, so that’s cool. And I’m not a pussy so I didn’t need therapy or anything.”

John’s eyebrows just about shot up to his hairline, but still he sipped at his drink without commenting.

Emily leaned back as to sit up the rest of the way. “And what about you?” she asked. “Any new and exciting developments in the life of Dr. John H. Watson?”

“Actually, uh, Sarah and I were thinking about visiting New Zealand for a bit.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, a couple weeks maybe. A friend of mine recently reached out and offered up his guest home. And I just thought, well, after all those guns and bombs and maniacs… it might be nice for a little time away from the city. But of course, I was waiting to book tickets until… Well, y’know, I was sure things were alright over here. What with…” The doctor trailed off momentarily, looking down at his mug. “And I’m understandably a little hesitant about leaving you two in Sherlock’s care for the rest of the month,” he went on after a moment.

Emily had very much perked up at this news. “New Zealand!” she breathed. “Oh, it’s beautiful there - that’s where they filmed Lord of the Rings! Can’t we come with you?”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” John countered.

“Why not?” begged Scottie from the opposite end of the living room.

“Well.” John strummed his hand against the side of the cup for a moment. “It’s certainly not that we wouldn’t want you there, but…” He then looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

“Neither of you have passports,” Sherlock finished for him, noticing.

Scottie made a face. “Okay. But I mean. How difficult can those be to procure?”

“Very difficult. And in your case impossible, unless you have all the proper documentation to show for it. Birth certificates, social security numbers, and of course, being minors only adds a whole ‘nother layer to the conundrum…” The detective leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. “And that’s just on your end,” he shrugged. “The government apparently isn’t as pressed on time as one applying for a passport; a point that is almost constantly being proven . Even with everything on hand, I wouldn’t guarantee the possibility of flying out of Britain within the month.”

“But… that’s where having Mycroft as a brother comes in?” Emily asked hopefully. Sherlock smiled falsely down at her just before pressing the mug to his lips.

\---

John and Sarah took off on their trip two days later. In their absence things were fairly slow around Baker Street. Sherlock kept himself busy running back and forth between experiments, and Scottie and Emily mostly lay in wait for the second season.

One particular morning Sherlock had just about finished up an analysis of perfumes on his website when he decided to crack open his violin case. Except that it wasn’t in the corner of the room where he usually left it. Sherlock hesitated for a moment. He looked over at Scottie, who was entirely engulfed in his computer and had apparently not noticed Sherlock coming into the living room. The detective then ventured downstairs and into 221C, where he found Emily exactly as he expected to.

Emily also didn’t seem to notice Sherlock’s presence, but the consulting detective waited patiently in the doorway as she finished up the piece she was playing on his violin. After the last note Emily held the instrument down. “I don’t know that one,” Sherlock commented, causing her to jump a little and whip her head around.

“Phantom of the Opera,” she answered.

“Hm. Not bad. But maybe try using more of the bow. You’re relying too much on the upper half.”

Emily rolled her eyes a little. “You sound like my conductor. Is there something you wanted, or…?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “No,” he said after a moment, “just checking in.”

“What’s this?” Scottie asked. He turned to face Sherlock, who had just reentered the room.

Sherlock blinked. “What’s what?”

“This,” the boy repeated, waving a pamphlet that he had picked up off of the dining table. “Tilly Briggs Pleasure Cruise,” he read.

The detective gave a disinterested shrug and strode across the room. “Must’ve come in with the mail,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

Scottie squinted. “But it was next to your…” With a shake of his head he unfolded the three-part advertisement to get a better look at it. The cover showed a very white ship’s deck with a young couple lounging about and clinking their glasses, all the while laughing with altogether too-fake grins. Scottie carefully folded the pamphlet back up again and set it down. He then went bounding after Sherlock, who had gone back to the kitchen table and started distributing something that looked like dirt into several different ziplock bags.

Scottie tilted his head and frowned down at Sherlock’s latest project. “Were you thinking about taking us on a holiday too?” he asked.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, the flier--”

“Was likely dropped into every mailbox on Baker Street,” Sherlock finished for him without looking up. “Drop it.”

Scottie exhaled dramatically and left the room, swiping up the pamphlet again on his way. After scurrying down the stairs he pushed open the unlocked door to 221C and found Emily playing Sherlock’s violin in their shared bedroom, which, aside from the bathroom, was still the only room in the flat that looked lived in.

She stopped when Scottie came in and set the violin down on top of its closed case. “Hey hey hey,” the girl sang. “Oh, so check this out: you know how Mrs. Hudson always does our laundry, right? Well, as you probably remember, last time she gave me a hard time about being old enough to start putting the folded stuff back into my drawer. Anyway so she left the basket at the foot of my bed and out of spite I hadn’t touched it since before John left, but now - look!” Emily skipped over to her dresser and pulled open the first drawer, which she gestured to the contents of. “All of them, neatly put away exactly where they belong and even color coordinated! Magic!”

“Yeah,” Scottie seethed. “That’s because I did that, you lazy fuck.”

“Oh. Well… thanks, then.”

“Anyway, I wanted you to have a look at this.” Scottie came up to Emily’s side and handed her the pamphlet for the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise. She took the paper and then looked back up at him blankly. “Sound familiar?”

“Um. Not really, no?”

“Tilly Briggs,” the boy repeated.

Emily shrugged.

“It was a case,” explained Scottie. “On John’s blog; not from the episodes themselves.”

“Wh… So you think we’re going on another case? Before season two?”

Now it was Scottie’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe. I mean, probably, yeah.”

Emily sucked in a breath and turned the paper over in her hands. “So like… a real case, huh? Not the kiddie errands we ran between the other episodes? There wasn’t anything like this in the first season, though.”

“I don’t think there was supposed to be anything in the first one. John’s blog started to pick up after all that, remember?”

“I guess,” the girl muttered. “So what do we have to go off of?”

“I’m not… sure, actually,” Scottie answered slowly. “I don’t remember reading anything about this one on the blog, I just recognized the title. Sort of. Technically Sherlock hasn’t even said anything about a case yet. We might be jumping the gun on this one.”

“Or he’s waiting for John to get back from New Zealand?” offered Emily.

“Yeah. Could be.”

The teenagers each had a seat at the edge of Emily’s bed at the same time and stared forward in contemplative silence.

“This is going to be an entirely different ballpark,” Scottie finally said. “They’re probably smaller cases, but we won’t have the advantage of knowing line-for-line what comes next.”

“Real life isn’t typically equipped with a script,” Emily reminded him.

“Let’s just try to be careful, okay? No more getting shot at if it can be helped.”

\---

Scottie and Emily met the couple just outside the airport, each holding up a brightly colored sparkly sign - one for John and one for Sarah. John and Sarah came out from a pair of sliding glass doors and wheeling a single suitcase each. Spotting the kids and their signs, John smiled and gave a little wave and they both ran forward to hug him.

“Oh, geez, I wasn’t gone that long,” laughed John.

“Yes you were,” disagreed Scottie. “Promise you’ll never ever leave us alone like that again.”

“Alone? Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were there. Oh - is that the line for cabs over there? We should probably get in it.”

“You guys go on ahead,” Sarah said. “I’ve already called an Uber.”

“Why wouldn’t we carpool?” Emily squinted and shifted her eyes from Sarah to John and back. Her eyes then widened with realization. “Oh. Shit. I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”

“What? No, we--” John said quickly.

“It’s okay,” Sarah interrupted at the same time. “Two different directions. Easier this way.”

“Oh. Um… okay.”

“Yeah, that’s… Yeah. Yeah. What she said.”

Sarah glanced down at her phone and then awkwardly said goodbye to them all just before going to meet her ride. Scottie and Emily couldn’t help but notice they hadn’t done their usual parting ways kiss and exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“Is, uh, everything okay with you guys?” Scottie asked as they were getting into the back of the line. Emily shot him a look that implied he had no right to ask that, to which Scottie shrugged.

“It’s… a long story,” John answered wearily. “We’re fine,” he then said a little too quickly. “Things are fine. Sarah’s… We’re good. Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

Emily raised a skeptical eyebrow at the man. “And other than… that, how was New Zealand?”

“Green.”

“See any hobbits?”

“No hobbits, no.”

“Bummer.”

\---

“Reading!” Emily scoffed as she was stepping out of the cab in front of 221 Baker Street. “That trip was wasted on you.”

Scottie followed her out and they waited while John unlocked the front door. “Says the girl who hasn’t picked up a book since we got here,” he muttered.

“That’s not true! I must’ve at least picked one up.”

“It was probably the prime spot for it anyway,” Scottie shrugged, “and if nothing else the poor guy needed a break after toadying to you for however many weeks!”

Emily threw Scottie an incredulous look. “Toadying?!”

“Oh, c’mon; he tucked your blanket underneath you every night!”

At this Emily folded her arms and stuck up her nose. “Fine. When it’s your turn to get shot, you can be cold at night.”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you two,” John laughed.

They were just starting up the stairs when Mrs. Hudson came out from her own flat. “Oh, John, you’re back!” the woman exclaimed happily. “How is Sarah?”

“She’s good,” John called back, leaning over the railing.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it! New Zealand, right? I bet you got all sorts of reading done there, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, actually…”

“Oh, but you’ve just come from the airport, haven’t you?”

John glanced down at his suitcase. “Um. Yeah. Yeah, I have,” he answered, looking up again.

“Then don’t let me keep you!” the landlady insisted. “Go on and unpack your things, but after you’ve settled back in I want to hear all about it, you hear?”

“Perhaps I ought to sit everyone down and avoid repeating the same stories three times in a row,” John thought out loud.

“That would be lovely!”

“Maybe you can do, like, a Powerpoint recap of the trip,” whispered Scottie.

“You shush. Although I do have pictures.”

John promised Mrs. Hudson once more that he would absolutely remember to recount the entire experience to her and sooner rather than later, and then he struggled to drag his suitcase the rest of the way up the stairs. The man had just passed the landing in front of 221B on his way to his own bedroom when Sherlock came running downstairs.

“Don’t unpack,” the detective was saying, “we’re going on a holiday. More or less.”

John stopped and watched Sherlock pass him and start into the living room. “But I just came back from my holiday,” John protested. “I’ve only just come in the door!”

Whirling back around, Sherlock held onto the door frame with both hands and leaned out. “Yes, hence ‘don’t unpack’.”

Wrinkling his nose first, John backtracked a couple stairs and set his suitcase back down against the landing’s wall. When he had turned around again Sherlock was already further inside 221B. John followed Scottie and Emily into the flat, where he could now see that the detective was furiously flipping through an assortment of papers on the dining room table.

“Scottie, did you move that foldout from the other day?” Sherlock asked loudly.

“Yes, but I brought it back.”

Sherlock pushed aside several more papers before he found what he was looking for. This he brought over to John, explaining, “Four days ago I was contacted via email by Matilda Briggs, the owner of this cruise line, which departs from South Dock Marina and makes a two-day trip down the Thames going East and back. Miss Briggs had concerns about one of her boats, which had taken off on schedule but never made its return date. I’ll admit, I wasn’t interested in the misplaced ship until Miss Briggs reached out to me again this morning, saying that this was the same case with two more of its kind.”

“Well, they’ve got to still be along the River Thames somewhere,” John shrugged. “It would take quite a lot of skill to stray off of a path like that.”

“That’s what you would think. Ships don’t vanish, particularly not in a confined space.”

“But these ones did?”

Sherlock nodded grimly.

“This might be a dumb question,” Scottie chimed in, “but wouldn’t it make sense to talk to someone onboard? Even if there was some sort of radio malfunction, cell phones are still a thing, and I bet most of the passengers and crew had those on them.”

“Communications with all onboard personnel was lost shortly after departure in each of the three cases.”

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Really? You tried every number on passenger registers for three different cruises?”

“Yes, that would be how I spent most of my morning,” Sherlock replied, looking vaguely annoyed.

“Wow. Impressive.”

“Tedious if anything.”

John glanced down at the paper in his hands once more, exhaled, and had a seat on the sofa. “So what then?”

“What indeed.” The corner of Sherlock’s lips rose into a knowing smirk.

John stiffened and leaned forward, his face dead serious. “You want us to go on the cruise and see if it happens again,” the man realized. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“I already spoke to Miss Briggs over the phone. She said we needn’t worry about purchasing tickets ourselves. They were all booked up anyway, but in case of overflow emergencies they apparently leave a couple rooms unoccupied.”

John looked over at Scottie and Emily, who were already grinning back at him obnoxiously. “Fine,” the man sighed. “How soon does it leave?”

\---

“You know, when you said we were going on a pleasure cruise, I was picturing bathing suits and Hawaiian shirts,” Emily grumbled. Instead she was hugging herself and in a sweater and puffy vest. A thick layer of fog blanketed the harbor. “There is nothing remotely pleasurable about freezing one’s ass off.”

“You forget that most of the world doesn’t have the little bubble of nice you’re used to,” Scottie told her snidely.

“So you keep reminding me. God, I can’t wait until summer rolls around and I can finally break out my short shorts…”

The two of them were patiently waiting outside of Matilda Brigg’s tiny office not all that far from the docks. The fog masked most things just a few feet in front of them and blended in with the gray sky, but in the distance several ships’ masts were still visible. Emily started to bounce in place a little in a poor attempt to warm herself up.

“Oh fuck me,” Scottie suddenly wheezed beside her. Emily stopped and turned her head in time to see Sherlock and John coming out of the building, and Sherlock was now wearing an all-white uniform that looked almost too much like a Halloween costume to be the real deal.

“Permission to take a selfie, Captain?” Emily asked as little too eagerly.

“Permission denied,” Sherlock shot back.

“Too late!”

Camera phone at the ready, Emily hopped up on the rope railing that surrounded the harbor and proceeded to take a picture of the both of them.

“Delete that,” Sherlock frowned, making a grab for the phone. Emily snorted and stepped down, pulling it back and out of reach.

“Are you kidding? This is going on John’s blog!”

“What’s with the costume change?” Scottie asked, currently fighting back the urge to laugh or start sobbing with joy. He hadn’t decided exactly which he was feeling more just yet.

“What better way to move about a ship freely than to appear to belong on it?”

“But… you didn’t pick up a couple of those for us, did you?”

“Sorry bud,” smiled John. “You two will be posing as regular passengers along with me.”

Scottie frowned. “Well that’s no fun. Why are you only one who gets to play dress-up?”

“Because I think we both know that that’s too much responsibility for you to not screw up,” Sherlock lectured. The man reached into a shirt pocket and took out two tickets and keys, which he handed off to each of the kids. “These are your passes onboard and room keys.”

“Scottie Watson?” Scottie read off of his ticket.

“You’re more or less undercover as a perfectly ordinary family spending their vacation sightseeing halfway down the River Thames. The ship shouldn’t be difficult to find; only departure South Dock Marina has scheduled for this morning.”

The boy tucked his key into a back pocket and started to fold his ticket in half. “Aren’t you coming on with us?”

“I’ll be just behind you. To avoid drawing attention we’re going to have to pretend not to know one another prior to this cruise, understand?” Both teens nodded. “Good. That being said, from this point on try to avoid direct communication. Text me if anything suspicious comes to your attention and I will make an effort to do the same.”

Once Sherlock was absolutely sure that Scottie and Emily knew what the plan was (not that there was all that much of a plan to go off of) he sent the three of them on their way further down the maze of docks up to the water, each lugging an overnight bag with them. It was there that they found their vessel. This was considerably smaller than that of a standard cruise ship, although neither of them knew enough about the subject matter to deduce much more than that. The bottom portion had been painted a bright seafoam green that looked as if it were trying as hard as it could to pierce through the thick fog. The words “Tilly Briggs Pleasure Cruise” were scrawled across it in enormous cursive letters, a phone number tacked on beneath them.

After crossing a wooden gangplank, the real Watson and his two fake Watsons handed off their tickets to a man that was dressed similarly to how Sherlock had been. “Is everything alright?” John asked, noticing that the other man was looking a bit confused as he took the tickets.

“Are you sure you’ve got the right ship?” he asked after a moment.

“I should think so,” John insisted. “We were just talking with Matilda about a scheduling mishap and she managed to squeeze us into this time slot last minute. Specifically pointed us in this direction.” John tilted his head, looking up at the cruise employee, who he was starting to think looked nervous. “Unless… you think there’s been some kind of mistake and wish to talk to Miss Briggs about it?”

“Wh--no! Of course not, I just… Well, never you mind that,” the man said and blinked owlishly. “I’m sorry for the trouble. Welcome aboard, and do enjoy your stay on the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise!” The man backed up several steps and gestured out to the ship’s deck.

“Well if that doesn’t qualify as suspicious...” Scottie muttered under his breath.

There didn’t seem to be too many other passengers onboard, and those that were generally kept to themselves. Scottie, Emily, and John saw Sherlock boarding but made a point to not ogle. The three of them instead migrated to the back end of the cruise ship and leaned over its railing, each of them quietly staring out at the partially obscured river.

“Alright, I’m gonna be the first to say I don’t like this,” Scottie said, turning his head towards John and Emily.

“Of course you don’t,” said Emily, “other people are involved.”

“Okay but it’s not just that. Did you see the way some of them were staring at us? Everyone seems a little… I don’t know, hostile. Particularly for a pleasure cruise.”

John nodded. “You’re right. But probably best not to do or say anything about it just yet. Whatever’s going on here, I doubt they’ll take too kindly to our snooping.”

It was a while longer before the ship actually set into motion, and it was so slow at first that they didn’t even notice they were moving right away. Emily sighed and doubled over the railing so that her arms dangled off the edge. “Man, I was so excited about going on a cruise, but this is going to be rather boring, isn’t it? It’s way too cold to use the pool. There’s too much fucking fog to do any sightseeing. I’ve got my fingers crossed that the buffet at least lives up to its Yelp ravings…”

“Hey, why don’t you two find your room and drop off your things there?” John suggested. “Get to know your way around the ship a little.”

Scottie made a face. “Um. I suppose we could… Do you know what direction that would be in?”

“No idea.”

“Great. Really helpful.”

Emily nodded her head to the side and took up her bag in one hand. “C’mon; I remember walking past the stairs leading below deck. They’re probably around there.”

“You know, another thing: this ship is very, very empty for a pleasure cruise,” Scottie was saying as they descended the staircase. “I know I can’t expect it to have hundreds like the Disney one you see on TV all the time, but there should be at least… what, sixty or so? I could easily count the number of passengers I saw out there on my fingers! On one hand, no less!”

“Why don’t you keep talking about your conspiracy theory at twice that volume so everyone involved can hear?” Emily threw back sarcastically.

“In case you’ve forgotten, this case gets titled Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror. I think I have every right to voice my anxieties concerning it.”

At the bottom of the stairs they came to a long hallway that stretched out for the length of the ship. Lining it were a series of what looked like hotel rooms. Scottie and Emily each pulled out their keys and had a look at the room numbers carved into them - both of which were 26.

“Guess we’re sharing,” Emily muttered.

They had little trouble locating their room down the line, and once they got to it Emily unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was terribly small. On one side of the room was a bunk bed, and at the other a sink and mirror next to a door that probably lead to a restroom. A short walkway existed between where the teens were standing and a rounded window opposite them.

Emily wrinkled her nose. “The brochure didn’t say anything about renting out a walk-in closet. Oh well. Dibs on top bunk.” The girl came further into the tiny room and threw her bag onto the top of the bunk bed. Scottie set his own bag down at the foot of the bed.

“The view sucks too,” Emily pouted as she pressed her hands up against the glass.

“At least it’s considerably warmer than outside. I grabbed a pack of playing cards if you just want to chill in here for a bit.” Emily looked back at Scottie, who was already starting to fish the deck out from his bag. “Since, y’know, we’re not really supposed to hang with Sherlock right now and as far as I can tell there’s nothing to do or see up there.”

“Won’t John get worried about us? You know he’s like that.”

“He has your number,” shrugged Scottie.

And so Emily plopped down across from Scottie and they quietly proceeded to play several increasingly competitive rounds of spit and egyptian ratscrew before Scottie got bored and threw the entire deck into the air and exclaimed “Fifty-two card pickup!”

Emily rolled her eyes and started to clean up the mess. “Was that necessary?” she asked.

“Yes,” Scottie answered with conviction.

“...Okay.”

After they’d gotten the cards orderly again and tucked them out of sight Emily checked the time on her phone. It still was a little more than an hour before noon, which she found disappointing because that was when the buffet was supposed to open.

“So. What now?” Scottie asked.

“Well… we could go explore the rest of the ship? Maybe see if we come across something remotely entertaining?”

“Oh!” Scottie gasped. “Maybe we can play hide and seek! Or hide and seek tag!”

“One two three not it!” Emily exclaimed.

“Alright, you’ve got sixty seconds.”

Emily’s eyes widened at this. “Wh… No way, sixty seconds isn’t enough to find a good place!”

“Better start looking then,” Scottie shrugged. “One… two… three…”

“Ugh fuck you!” Without arguing further the girl pulled open the door to their room and took off down the corridor. She didn’t see anything that looked remotely like a hiding place on that level, and so Emily started quickly up the stairs to the upper deck.

But she didn’t make it very far.

Almost immediately after ascending the staircase someone grabbed at the girl’s forearm, jerking her to the side. Emily tried to yell out but a hand flew over her mouth from behind. She could now see that aside from whoever was behind her, she was faced with three more men, two of which looked like employees and the other could’ve been another passenger. Starting to panic, Emily began to kick wildly at the strangers. Two of them each grabbed one of her legs and she was lifted off of the ground, thrashing about and letting muffled shouts all the while.

“...Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty!” Scottie finished and darted out of the room after Emily. But his smile quickly faded when he heard the commotion from up above. Clinging to the railing at the bottom of the stairs now, Scottie leaned out and only just saw Emily being pulled away by a group of men that were twice her size.

“Shit,” Scottie wheezed. He instinctively began patting around his pockets in search of a cell phone, momentarily forgetting that he didn’t have one, and then scurried back the way he came.

He had forgotten to lock the room again after vacating it, so luckily it swung open again on the first attempt. His breathing heavy, Scottie touched along the door for some way to bolt it shut further but found nothing. Scottie swallowed and pressed his back up against the door. He wasn’t sure if or when they’d be coming him next, much less why, and that only made it harder to decide whether he should go try to help Emily or keep himself holed up in their room.

He apparently didn’t have all that long to think about this because suddenly he heard the bathroom door knob jiggling. Scottie tensed up and stared at it for a moment. The jiggling had stopped and was followed by three knocks. Chewing at his lower lip, Scottie crossed the room and cautiously reached for the knob, already knowing that he was probably going to regret this.

Scottie sucked in a breath and held it as he pulled open the bathroom door. The boy then let out a sigh of relief. Standing across from him was Sherlock, who had a new cut across his left temple that was stained with blood but otherwise looked okay.

“So, the good news is that I think I’ve solved the case.”

\---

Emily was brought into what she eventually figured out was the ship’s bridge - a boxy little room with a line of glass and control panels in place of one of its walls. As soon as the guys carrying her stopped walking she bit at the hand still cupped in front of her face. Its owner gasped and dropped her so that her top half fell backwards and hit against the floor. Emily yelped.

The others released her legs and Emily scrambled to her feet and made a hopeless attempt at getting back out of there. The man who she had bitten then yanked her around by her wrist, which he twisted behind her back and used to slam her down over one of the panels, pinning her into place with his other arm.

“Fuck!” Emily hissed. “What is your damage?!”

“Where’s the other one?” someone else asked, ignoring her. Out of the corner of her eye Emily could see that he wasn’t one of the ones who had brought her, and there was one more man standing behind him. One of them was in uniform.

“Other one?” another one of the uniformed fellows echoed.

“Yes, the other kid. The boy.”

“We… never saw anyone else. Sir.”

The other man pinched at the bridge of his nose for a moment in obvious annoyance. “Great,” he grumbled, letting his arm drop again. “Stash this one with her dad. I’ll round up the rest of the boys and have them do a sweep of the lower decks. He isn’t leaving this ship, you hear?”

“Yes sir.”

The man who had been shouting out orders turned to his companion then and whispered something. The other gave a curt nod as soon as he had finished and left the room from the opposite side. Emily was then yanked up once more and guided out of the bridge by a thick hand gripping tightly around her neck. She had seemingly given up on putting up much of a resistance.

Emily was taken across the ship and into what appeared to be the dining hall, which consisted of a bar and several rounded tables and chairs. At the far end of the room was a janitorial closet, which Emily was unceremoniously shoved into. Emily immediately lost her footing over something, but her fall was broken by some metal shelves that were holding up various cleaning supplies.

It was an insanely tight space. The door shut behind her, cutting off the only light source. Emily whirled around and tried to pull at the door knob. “Hey!” she yelled out amid the blackness. She slammed the palm of her hand against the door. “You can’t do this!”

When she wasn’t answered right away Emily started to feel around the wall for a light switch. She found one, but it wasn’t working. The girl exhaled anxiously and took her cell phone out of a back pocket, half surprised that it hadn’t been confiscated. She hit a button on the thing, causing its screen to light up, and took a minute to figure out how to turn on its flash to use in place of a flashlight.

As soon as she had that working Emily looked down and saw that what she’d initially tripped over wasn’t a bucket, but a body.

Emily shrieked and dropped the pink phone.

Now facing the floor, her light was almost entirely blocked and the room darkened again. After a moment of heavy breathing and squishing herself into the corner of the room, Emily finally found it in herself to crouch down and pick her phone back up. She pointed the device at the figure lying face-down and now recognized it as John. Emily gasped and scrambled closer.

“John!” the girl choked. “John! Oh my God, John! Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

Emily shook the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t respond. She set the phone down with its light facing up and put her face closer to John’s just to make sure he was still breathing.

He was and that was at least a bit of a relief. Emily’s arm brushed past the back of the man’s head then and she jerked her arm back, having felt something wet. When she looked down at her wrist she could now see a smear of what could only be blood that looked black in that lighting. Emily pressed a hand over her mouth and took several deep breaths.

“What the fuck is going on!” she finally exhaled, her voice weak.

\---

“And… is the bad news that Emily just got dragged off by a bunch of creepy strangers?”

“She what!” Sherlock snapped, eyes widening. “I thought she was with you! How could you let this happen?!”

Scottie frowned. “I’m sorry, but did you just say how could I let this happen?”

“Well there’s no sense in pointing fingers about it now,” Sherlock sighed and invited himself into the room, “doubtless they’ve got her and John in the same place, and hopefully they’ll stay there until the rest of us are rounded up.”

“They’ve got John too!”

“Yes of course they’ve got John!” Sherlock yelled back. “And that one I’ll take responsibility for. I should’ve seen what was happening the second I stepped onto this floating metal tin. God, what were we thinking? This was such a stupid plan!” The detective kicked at the bottom bunk frustratedly and then threw himself down on it with a grunt.

Scottie rubbed at one of his arms and looked nervously at the man. “So… uh, am I allowed to ask why some people grabbed John and Emily?”

“Because we weren’t supposed to be here,” Sherlock threw back matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry?”

“Technically speaking neither were any of them, but that’s not the main point. We stuck out like a sore thumb and the best of our disguises wouldn’t have done a thing to change that. There’s an old story, um… that there used to be a man who would cross from East Berlin into West Berlin while the wall was still up. Every morning he would ride up to the same checkpoint on a bicycle with a sack of sand tied to it. Every morning the guards would cut open his sack and search it. Finding nothing, they would let the man through. He would return that night and repeat this the following day.”

Scottie blinked. “Okay…?”

“The guards apparently never realized that this man was smuggling bicycles. Whether the story is true or not is irrelevant. The point of it is how easy it is to slip something by right under another’s nose without drawing attention to the main item. For instance, how would you steal a ship?”

“You… find a way to pretend you belong on it,” Scottie caught on.

Sherlock smiled a little. “Bingo. It was a clever scheme, I’ll give them that much. And it would explain the considerably smaller number of people onboard. The bare minimum to avoid drawing suspicion. I imagine they paid off whatever crew members aren’t directly involved. I wouldn’t know the exact worth of a boat this size but I imagine it’s quite a lot, and they likely intend on smuggling out all eight that Miss Briggs has in her possession.”

“But you had a passenger list,” Scottie reminded Sherlock. “What about all of them? Were they paid off as well? Because that many would be rather impressive. Not to mention costly. I’m not sure if it’d even be worth it at that point.”

“Aliases. None of those passengers actually existed, which would explain why none of them could be contacted as soon as the ships went off the grid. All expenses paid with the same set of fake cards, no doubt. And the time frame matches up. There was just enough time between trips for the group to take the ship across the Thames, where the Coastguard obviously wouldn’t see it as out of place, and then circle back around with plenty of time to take out the next one. Either the first three were already handed off to a buyer or they’re stashed in a private dock somewhere at the mouth of the North Sea.”

Scottie scrubbed his hands over his face. “Okay, okay, congrats on solving the thing!” he let out. “I believe you. But if what you say is true, we’re kind of trapped in a confined space and very much outnumbered. I don’t suppose you have a plan for stopping these guys?”

Sherlock hesitated with his mouth opened slightly. After a moment he closed it again and hung his head in shame. “I’m still working on that bit,” the man admitted.

They both fell quiet and Scottie folded his arms and leaned his back against the wall opposite Sherlock. “We can’t take them all out and turn the ship around ourselves, can we?”

“...No,” Sherlock sighed, his voice much softer now. “I seriously doubt it.”

More silence.

“We need to get above deck undetected,” Sherlock suddenly announced and lifted his head.

Sherlock went to the door and touched its handle, but before opening it he came closer and pressed his ear against the door's crack. The man made a face and instead started to climb up the bunk bed. Scottie watch him with intrigue as he felt along the paneled ceiling and then pushed up one of the plywood panels. This he turned at its side so that it would slide down. Sherlock let it drop to the floor and stood up so that his top half disappeared into the ceiling.

"Uh... Sherlock? You okay there, buddy?" Scottie started up the ladder after him.

"This might not work," the detective admitted.

"Oh, well thanks for that boost of confidence."

"Stick close to me," Sherlock instructed and pulled himself up out of the room. Scottie crawled closer and craned his neck up. It was dark up there and all he could see now were Sherlock's feet, and even those disappeared after a moment. "Try to evenly distribute your weight and avoid kneeing the center of the panels," Sherlock went on, unseen.

"Alright, wait up!" Scottie shouted. The boy cautiously found where he could stand without hitting his head and struggled to pull himself up through the crawl space.

"Also probably avoid talking at this point."

Scottie wrinkled his nose. Now that he was completely up he could just make out Sherlock's outline scooting away from him and into the darkness that seemed to stretch out in every direction. As they got further out he began to hear muffled voices from below and made an extra effort to keep the volume of his movements to a minimum.

They were doing so far so good up until Scottie lost his footing over one of the panels and it snapped in half and dropped. The boy slid backwards but stopped himself from falling completely through with one foot while his other leg dangled off the edge.

A series of excited shouts told Scottie that this mishap hadn’t gone unnoticed. Beginning to panic again, Scottie kicked and tried to push himself back up but he had nothing to grab onto. Without giving it much forethought Scottie slammed a fist through another one of the panels and used the bar between the missing ones to try and pull himself up.

Suddenly he felt a hand grab hold of his ankle and pull it down. Scottie gasped and clung tighter to the bar. He looked up and saw Sherlock had spun around and was lying on his stomach in front of him now. Sherlock held out a hand to Scottie and pulled him in the opposite direction.

Scottie yanked his foot away from whoever had previously had him, losing a shoe in the process. The boy reared back and kicked whoever it was in the face just before being pulled back to safety.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.

Scottie nodded.

With the nod of his head Sherlock lead Scottie onward. It had just started to feel as if their pursuers had given up when something poked through another one of the panels several feet away from them, knocking it down. The gesture was repeated. Sherlock didn't look back but quickened his crawling pace.

Finally they reached the opposite end of the ship. Of course they couldn't see where it ended, but they could certainly feel it.

"Now what?" Scottie whispered, glancing back nervously at the panels that were still being knocked down one at a time. A good distance remained between them and the commotion, however, and it occurred to Scottie that this was because they were now above the rooms at the other end of the hall.

Scottie couldn't see what Sherlock was doing now, and the man didn't bother to answer him (one of his more frustrating traits). A new stream of light poured in when Sherlock lifted up a panel and put it aside. The detective peered down through it and then jumped in. Scottie took a deep breath and come closer to stick his own head through the hole.

Below him wasn't another bedroom but some sort of closet. Scottie still wasn't entirely sure what they were doing but he jumped in after Sherlock anyway. He had been just a little higher than he wanted to be and as such didn't land so gracefully.

"Need a hand?" Sherlock asked rather distractedly.

"Not anymore..." the boy winced back.

The paneled ceiling stopped halfway through the room, giving way to some kind of hatch with a metal ladder leading up to it.

"Is that a fire escape?" Scottie asked, picking himself up.

"Something like that."

The hatch brought the boys up at the rear end of the ship, hidden just behind its dining hall. It was midday now and most of the fog had burned off, but it wasn’t much warmer despite this. Sherlock glanced out around the corner of the building and spotted the guys from before just coming up from the stairs at the ship’s center. Sherlock sucked in a breath and turned back to Scottie, who was awkwardly waiting behind him.

“I’m just making everything ten times harder, aren’t I?” Scottie asked guiltily.

Sherlock shrugged. “Well. Ten is a bit extreme, but… a bit, yeah.”

“Sorry.”

Sherlock leaned his back up against the wall and took out his phone. He made a face at the long string of missed calls and texts that Emily had apparently left for him, but he chose not to look at them just yet. “Lestrade,” he said into the phone after a moment, “any chance you can call in a favor with the marine police forces? I need a cruise ship cut off. Somewhere between” - Sherlock shut his eyes tightly for a brief period of time before they snapped open again - “the East India Docks and Woolwich Foot Tunnel. Sorry I can’t be more exact than that. Uh, smuggling. And abduction. Yeah. Don’t take your time.”

Sherlock hung up then and pressed the phone against his chest. Scottie frowned back at him. “You didn’t think to make that call sooner?”

“How’s your swimming?” the detective suddenly asked, acknowledging Scottie again.

Scottie squinted back at Sherlock distrustfully. “What are the odds of me saying I’m a strong swimmer and you not throwing me into the Thames to prove it?”

“Slim to none. I don’t expect you to make it across all one-fifty-some meters, but there are plenty of other boats on the river, especially at this time of day. Your best shot is getting on one of those.”

“Wh…” Scottie shook his head. “No, I wanna stay and help!”

“And if things don’t pan out, knowing you got away is somewhat helpful.” Sherlock made a quick glance around the corner once more. He didn’t see the guys anymore, but figured it wouldn’t be long before they turned their search in that direction.

“Why can’t you come with?” protested Scottie.

Without giving him a reason, Sherlock hoisted the boy up over the railing despite his squirming and dropped him over the edge. It was a long fall and then the icy water engulfed Scottie. He popped back up moments later with a dramatic gasp for air and then flipped Sherlock off before starting to swim as hard as he could away from the ship.

Back onboard Sherlock silently hoped that he’d done the right thing just then. Now hoping to find John and Emily and get them to do likewise, the detective skimmed through Emily’s texts until he found the ones saying where she was. Sherlock tucked his mobile away and began to circle around the building. He then spotted another person headed in his direction. Knowing that he’d been seen, Sherlock took off running around the opposite side, where he was immediately cut off by two more.

The first of the two threw a punch in Sherlock’s direction, which he narrowly avoided. Neither of them were particularly good fighters, and their reflexes were slower than his. Sherlock probably could’ve taken both of them had they not had more friends just around the corner. In a matter of minutes the detective was outnumbered and thrown to the floor, where he was then kicked repeatedly until he couldn’t even find to strength to try and stand up again.

“Alright, knock it off!” someone bellowed.

At this the attackers stopped what they were doing and the crowd took a couple steps back from Sherlock, who began coughing. Sherlock wiped the back of his hand against his bloodstained mouth and squinted up at the newcomer. He was dressed similarly to how Sherlock and some of the other men were, but this man was additionally wearing a captain’s hat.

“Who do I contact about filing a complaint against this cruise line?” Sherlock croaked.

The man in the hat looked down harshly at Sherlock. “That would be me,” he answered with a sly smile. “Captain Joshua Ratner.”

“You’re in charge, then?”

“That I am.”

“Not of this ship, though. Not according to the registry.”

The other man’s smile quickly faded. “Get up,” he instructed.

Sherlock thought momentarily about this demand. “No actually I’m quite good down here, thanks.”

Several of the other sailors exchanged glances before hoisting Sherlock to his feet with a pained gasp. “Secure him to the railing,” Captain Ratner ordered. “This one was hard to get hold of. I don’t want to go through the whole thing again.”

Ratner’s instructions were carried out and Sherlock’s wrists were bound behind his back and around a section of the ship’s railing by some kind of rubber-wrapped cord. “Just who are you?” Ratner slitted his eyes and stepped closer as soon as the deed was finished. “We would’ve known if you were really with Tilly Briggs.”

“I’m an associate of Miss Briggs,” Sherlock answered. “I was asked to look into the recent disappearance of several of her ships.”

Ratner snorted. “Private dick, then. Glorified trespassers if you ask me. How much do you know?”

“Everything.”

“He’s lying!” one of the other men accused. “Ain’t no way he knows what’s what.”

“Don’t suppose it matters either way,” shrugged Ratner. “Whatever information he thinks he has on us isn’t leaving this ship.”

“Not true,” Sherlock countered. “I’ve already contacted the authorities. They should be waiting to board and make the arrests at the next checkpoint. This ship won’t make it out of the Thames. Not today.” As he spoke, Sherlock had been already struggling to nonchalantly unclip a swiss army knife from a set of keys that were attached to a belt loop behind his back.

The man who had spoken before’s nostrils flared. “A liar and a bluffer!”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you!” snapped Ratner. The other man lowered his head and Ratner faced Sherlock again, grinning. “You must think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything but since you bring it up…”

With a soft click the knife came off and Sherlock flipped it open and got to work at cutting through the thick mess of cords. It was a difficult enough angle already without looking and more than once he pricked his hand with the tiny blade, but Sherlock kept on a poker face and forced himself to engage in conversation with Ratner.

Ratner folded his arms and puffed out his chest proudly. “I’m not afraid of being boarded. They can search this place high and low and won’t find anything remotely suspicious about a cruise ship already pre-scheduled to pass by at that exact time. Maybe a ton of people heard about the previous incidents and decided not to show at the last minute? It isn’t unheard of.”

“And you aren’t even a little bit worried that I might say something?”

“Why should I? By then you and the other stowaways will already be long since buried at the bottom of the Thames.”

Sherlock stiffened. “Other stowaways?” he repeated.

“Yeah. That family of three you came with.”

“I didn’t come with anyone else,” Sherlock lied. “Please, if there’s a family onboard that isn’t a part of your scheme then they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Leave them alone.” Geez, just how many times had they wrapped that cord around?

“I find that hard to believe,” the captain scoffed. “The trip was booked up months in advance. Managing to get onto it goes way beyond wrong place, wrong time. And even if that were the case, it wouldn’t change a thing. Those guys have seen too much to be allowed to leave.” Ratner turned around to address his men now. “Say, why don’t you boys go and fetch our guests? Bring ‘em a couple chairs too while you’re at it.”

Sherlock watched frustratedly as all six of the other men took off to do Ratner’s bidding. “You don’t want to do this,” he begged.

“Oh? Pray tell, why not?”

“Because we aren’t like the fake passengers on the registry. If we go missing people will notice and they’ll come looking. They’ll know where we last were and figure out you’re responsible.”

Ratner shook his head smugly. “Look all they want, but they won’t find anything. We’ll be long gone by then. And so will you.”

\---

Emily had been trying to get ahold of Sherlock for the last twenty minutes or so. Her phone said it had service but he wasn’t responding and that made her worry that the messages weren’t going through. The battery was beginning to dwindle and eventually Emily gave up and set the device down on the floor next to her.

She sat sideways, leaning up against the wall and unable to see anything in the darkness. Emily had absolutely no idea how long she remained like this, but after a fair amount of time she heard John let out a grunt.

At this Emily scrambled to pick up her phone and turn the flashlight back on. John was starting to get to his knees as she pointed it at him and he held up a hand to block the light and groaned louder.

“Oh, sorry!” Emily quickly apologized and set the thing down.

“Emily…?”

“Yes hello it is I.”

Sitting upright now, John blinked a couple times in succession and touched at the back of his head and winced. He held his hand out in front of his face and looked unhappily down at the blood that was now staining it.

“I was hit from behind,” he muttered. Although it was unclear if John was remembering this or assuming based off of the injury he just discovered.

“I assumed as much,” Emily said softly. “And then, I was playing with Scottie and these guys ambushed me and… and threw me in here. Why would they do that?” she asked John. “Do you know why they would do that?”

John exhaled and shook his head. “My guess is as good as yours, kid. Where’s Scottie?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Sherlock? Is that your phone? Did you text him?”

“I don’t know. I tried to but he wasn’t responding.”

John took a couple deep breaths and glanced around the very dimly lit closet. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Next to the dining hall,” she responded. John clung to the shelves and used those to stand up. He then reached for the door knob. “Don’t you think I tried that already?” Emily sighed wearily.

But the door did open as soon as John tried it. Emily’s eyes lit up in surprise at having been wrong but they both quickly realized that that wasn’t why it had opened. Standing across from them was a group of six men. Without a word in edgewise the both of them were pulled out of the janitorial closet and dragged through the dining hall and around the back of it. This was where they saw Sherlock leaning up against the edge of the ship and facing another man that Emily remembered very clearly from earlier.

“Where’s the boy now?” spat Ratner, whirling around angrily at them as they approached.

“We… never found him. Sir.” one of the men answered for the others.

Ratner balled up his fists. “What do you mean, you never found him?!”

“We searched the whole ship, every nook and crany. We thought he was with the man in our uniform but that didn’t turn out to be the case.”

“Well then keep searching!” fumed Ratner, starting to go red. “Roger, Eric, Chris - you go. I swear to God, you boys better find him or you’ll both be taking his place.”

“Yes sir!” the three of them nodded and excused themselves from the huddle.

“The rest of you tie the stowaways to their seats. I want them off my ship.”

John and Emily were both unhappily forced into a chair and the coil of cords was brought over.

“H-Hold up!” one of the men suddenly exclaimed and tugged at Ratner’s sleeve. “If you’re just planning on killing them, couldn’t I borrow the girl for a bit first?”

Several sets of horrified eyes fell on this man.

“Jesus,” Ratner hissed, “are you serious?”

“Hey, waste not, want not! C’mon; all I need is an hour tops, then I can dump ‘er myself.”

Ratner hesitated briefly before yanking Emily out of the seat by her vest and shoving her into the other guy’s arms with a shriek. “Fine, but make it a half hour. I don’t want anything left lying around if and when the authorities get here.”

John jumped up and lunged forward, but he was immediately pulled back by two of the men. As soon as he was back in the chair they started tightly stringing the cord around him. “Oi!” John barked. He pulled furiously against the binding. “Don’t you dare touch her!”

Emily tried to pull away but the man took her by her wrists and held her into place with her own arms wrapped around herself. “Say Capt’n, would you fancy a go after I’m finished warmin’ ‘er up?” the brute snickered.

“I’ll pass,” Ratner said flatly.

The other man shrugged. “A’ight. Your loss.” With that he let go of his current grip on Emily and grabbed a fistful of hair with one hand and dug his nails into her forearm with the other.

“I said don’t touch her!” John yelled after him. “Did you hear me? Touch her and I’ll kill you! I will actually kill you!”

“Alright, shut up, Daddy,” one of the men behind John grunted and bent over to shut the doctor’s jaw by force. John couldn’t see Emily and the stranger any longer. Now there was just Ratner and two of his cronies remaining. Still fuming, John jerked his head away.

It was at that moment that Sherlock finally managed to sever the last bit of cord. Now wielding the swiss army knife out in front of himself, he charged at Ratner, pinning him against the wall. The other men exchanged glances but otherwise made no move to step in.

Ratner snorted. “Not bad. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. Such a small blade, too.”

“Small but just as effective,” seethed Sherlock.

“Is that the title of your sex tape?”

“Bring her back up here and let the man go.”

“Empty threats,” sang Ratner, full of confidence. “As much as you might want to slit my throat right now, you won’t. So long as I don’t fight back, you don’t have it in you.”

Sherlock pressed the knife slightly harder against the captain’s throat so that just a trickle of blood started to form along the very end of the blade. His breathing was heavy. But Ratner’s smile didn’t fade until he heard someone’s voice calling out from over a megaphone.

“This is the Marine Police Forces,” the voice announced. “We have you surrounded. Under British law, please halt your vessel and prepare to be boarded.”

His face entirely transformed into a scowl now, Ratner met Sherlock’s eyes. “Guess they’re running ahead of schedule,” Sherlock told him, it being his turn now to smirk.

“Throw the stowaway over,” Ratner glowered.

Sherlock leaned back, his face falling again. “What?”

“THROW HIM OVER.”

Sherlock whipped his head around just as the two remaining sailors hefted John’s chair into the air and chucked it overboard. John let out a yell as this was happening. Sherlock let the knife drop from his hand and darted back to the railing, Ratner laughing from behind him all the while. One of the other men tried to pull Sherlock back by his collar but the detective snapped around and socked him in the face, making the guy topple backwards and knock over his companion in the process.

Sherlock leaned over the railing and then stepped back again and kicked off his shoes. Next he pulled off his uniform’s shirt. Sherlock then climbed up the ship’s railing and swan dove into the water after his flatmate.

\---

Downstairs, Emily had been brought into one of the suites at the end of the hall. This room was considerably bigger than the one she and Scottie had been assigned to, but still wasn’t even comparable to theirs back on Baker Street. The far side was entirely constructed from glass with a dark curtain pulled across and a queen sized bed sat at the other end.

The man threw Emily down against the bed and shut the door behind himself. Her mind whirling, Emily climbed over it and pressed up against the opposite wall.

“Look,” the man rolled his eyes, “why don’t you just make this whole thing easier on both of us and get back on the bed.”

Emily shook her head furiously.

He sighed. “Alright then. Hard way it is.”

Emily remained frozen in terror as the stranger unzipped her puffy vest and pulled it off of her. She was holding back tears now. The man tossed the article of clothing aside carelessly and came closer to her. As a gut reaction Emily threw out a leg suddenly, kicking the man in the crotch and sending him stumbling backwards a couple steps.

She immediately realized that this could’ve potentially made the whole thing even worse (if that were possible) and looked desperately towards the door. There was no way she could make it out of there without being stopped. Instead Emily took a left and dove into the bathroom and looked around frantically for something - anything - she could use as a weapon.

“Oh, I really wish you hadn’t done that…”

The first thing the girl found was a can of Febreze. She grabbed this and as soon as she had done so the man was blocking her exit. Emily charged forward, spraying the air freshener directly into his eyes. He let out a yowl and in his temporary blindness Emily shoved past him and made a mad dash for the door.

She just got to the foot of the stairs when he was upon her again. Emily screamed. But then he fell forward and face-planted into the wooden floorboards. Lip trembling, Emily looked up to see a familiar face rearing back with a fire extinguisher.

“Scottie!” she choked.

“If he moves I’ll bash him again!” the boy spat. Both of them waited for several long seconds just to be sure, but he didn’t move, as much as he may’ve deserved it.

“Y-You’re soaking wet.”

Scottie looked down at his attire, which was currently still dripping and stuck uncomfortably to his body. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Sherlock kind of threw me off the ship, but then I didn’t listen to him and swam around to the side with the ladder on it.”

Emily tried to force a smile but instead ended up breaking down sobbing.

“Hey…” Scottie ran around the unconscious man and guided Emily so that she was now sitting on the steps beside him. He set down the fire extinguisher. “It’s okay. The police are here now. Nobody’s going to hurt you. It’s okay.”

\---

The weight of the chair pulled John down just as effectively as any anchor would’ve. Sherlock grabbed the top of it and struggled to drag his friend back to the surface, but the task proved incredibly difficult. Despite his best efforts the combined John and furniture was too heavy. The more he pulled up, the further down John seemed to pull him.

Finally Sherlock had to let go and revisit the surface for air for himself. He immediately dove back down again, kicking furiously to catch up to where John had sank to. Since his previous attempt proved fruitless, now Sherlock tried to free John from the chair while still underwater.

Everything was cold and blurry underwater, but Sherlock located the knots at the back of the chair easily enough and started to fidget with them. It didn’t help that as he was working the chair continued its descent into the Thames.

Several excruciating seconds passed and Sherlock wasn’t any closer to untying the cords. They were too tightly knotted even despite the circumstances. Sherlock’s lungs were starting to burn, and he could only imagine how much worse off John must have been at that moment. 

Now Sherlock switched to tugging at the cords that were around John one at a time, hoping to free him that way. It wasn’t easy but eventually he did manage to loosen the first one enough to pull it over John’s head. The following strings of cord were considerably easier, each loosening more and more the further along he got. At last John was free and the chair continued to plummet to its watery grave without him.

The burning in Sherlock’s lungs was almost tenfold now and he could’ve sworn they were about to burst. Sherlock fought through the pain and pulled John towards the surface with him by the man’s arms. This time they both made it and Sherlock popped his head up, gasping for air. He looked over at John, at first relieved, but suddenly concerned that his friend wasn’t doing the same.

Sherlock scanned his eyes across the horizon. At one side of him was the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise. At the other was a police boat, and they must’ve seen him because a long rope was tossed out. Needless to say, Sherlock swam himself and John in that direction.

The end of the rope was still a good five to ten feet off, but as soon as Sherlock had gotten close enough to get a firm grasp on it he had the help of two other men pulling at the rope from aboard the police ship. Once the flatmates were within reaching distance each of the marine officers pulled them up the rest of the way.

The one who had brought John in wasted no time in performing CPR. In an impressively short about of time John was sitting upright again and coughing and spitting up water. Sherlock looked up at the cruise ship but couldn’t see what was happening on it from where he was.

“Which of you is Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock looked back and saw John pointing at him in response. The officer who asked looked like he was about to say something else but he was interrupted via walkie-talkie from one of the officers that had boarded the Tilly Briggs ship from another boat.

“We’ve got seven guys. Do you know if that’s right?”

The officer held down his walkie-talkie and looked to Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock nodded. “Yeah. Seven. There should be seven.”

“Confirmed,” the officer answered.

“Ask if there’s a girl with them,” Sherlock requested. “There was a girl onboard. Ask if she’s okay.”

The officer nodded and clicked the button on his walkie-talkie, holding it up again. “Apparently there’s a female onboard as well?”

“Yes. We have two children with us. A boy and a girl.”

Sherlock exhaled rather loudly and flopped back all the way so that he was now staring up at the sky and beginning to ever so slowly dry off.

\---

“Check it, we made the evening news,” John announced. He came into the room through the kitchen still in his bathrobe and grabbed the remote off a nearby table.

Sherlock had run out without explanation about an hour ago and now Scottie and Emily were hanging out on the floor of 221B and eating out of microwave mac and cheese cups. John threw himself down in his armchair and turned on the TV.

“--have stressed that they had no idea what was going on,” an older Asian woman was in the middle of reporting. “A full investigation of the incident is still underway in search of the three previously stolen cruise ships, but so far we have confirmed that as many as seven suspects were arrested under charges of theft, smuggling, and abduction.”

The screen changed to show a still photo of the cruise ship now, but the reporter went on with her piece uninterrupted: “The discovery of this conspiracy has been accredited to private eye Sherlock Holmes, who was hired by the sole owner of the company, Miss Matilda Briggs.”

Next the screen cut to footage from earlier that day showing Sherlock at a harbor. He was still shirtless but now had a towel draped over his shoulders.

“Mr. Holmes, is it true that you were able to sneak aboard the Tilly Briggs pleasure cruise while the smuggling operation was underway?” someone offscreen asked. Their hand could just barely be seen at the bottom of the frame, now holding out a microphone.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered slowly. He had this look on his face that suggested the answer to that question should have been obvious and he wasn’t entirely sure why it was being asked of him.

“And was it you who phoned the police as soon as you knew what was going on?”

“Yes.”

“Care to elaborate as to what did, in fact, happen this morning?”

“No,” Sherlock replied after a moment of careful thought.

“Look, this isn’t… It’s not a good time,” John chimed in. The camera panned over to show the man standing beside Sherlock. “It’s been a long day, the kids are tired and we just want to get home. This isn’t a good time.”

The news story cut back to the first reporter. “Miss Briggs wasn’t available for comment on the lawsuit currently being filed against her company for fraud and accepting bribes. To read more on this story, visit our website under ‘recent headlines’. I’m Ashley Wu, reporting--”

John shut the TV off again, cutting of the tail end of Ashley’s story. He looked over at Emily and Scottie, who had been watching it but apparently didn’t have anything to say. “Shame they’re suing Miss Briggs, considering she was the one being wronged in the first place,” the man muttered. “What’s your verdict?”

“I’m never going on another cruise again,” Emily huffed. “Never.”

“What about you?” John asked, looking at Scottie now.

The boy shrugged. “I always did think they were kind of overrated to begin with.”

John smiled. “Fair enough. You know, I’m proud of you guys. You’re a lot stronger than I usually remember to give you credit for.”

“Thanks,” Scottie said, looking down.

“Can we put this whole thing behind us and talk about something else now?” requested Emily.

John blinked and tilted his head. “Um. Alright. What did you want to talk about?”

“Let’s talk about Sarah. Is everything really alright between you two?”

“Full disclosure…” John pursed his lips and took a deep breath before answering. “No. We spent half the time in New Zealand fighting and I haven’t heard from her since. I was probably going to try and meet up at some point this week. See if it was… worth saving.”

Emily frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know. I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Or you know,” Scottie butted in, “we could instead go on another case and just avoid dealing with everything else forever and ever?”

“We could,” laughed John. “I like that. Yeah. Let’s do that.”


	2. The Derp Interpreter

Emily was clinging to the back of the driver’s seat fearfully as the bus swerved around another corner, running the stoplight. “You know, I’m pretty sure rules of the road still apply in car chase!” she yelled over the screeching of the tires. “Was this really the best plan you had?!”

“No, but it’s fastest,” Sherlock answered from in front of her. He stepped harder on the gas, narrowly avoiding hitting a van coming in the opposite direction. “We’ll cut them off at the shipping yard!”

“Or get us all killed trying!”

“Oh, where’s that cheerful disposition Scottie’s always complaining about? Yellow car.”

“WE AREN’T PLAYING YELLOW CAR RIGHT NOW.”

“I thought you said we’re always playing yellow car?”

 

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID. EYES ON THE ROAD, FAST AND FURIOUS.”

In another couple blocks Sherlock pulled the double-decker bus into a parking lot and jammed into a space that was very nearly too compact for the vehicle. It hadn’t even come to a complete stop and Sherlock was already running off. Emily reached for a nearby bar and turned to face the startled tourists behind her.

“We are… so sorry about that little detour,” the girl wheezed. She was pretty sure at least one elderly foreigner was recording her on their phone but she tried her best to ignore it. “Um. This bus is going to be out of service for a bit, so maybe hang tight for the duration of that time and we’ll find you a replacement driver at the soonest possible--”

Suddenly Sherlock was back on the bus and yanking at the hood of Emily’s jacket. “O-Oh, okay!” she wheezed just as she was pulled outside.

\---

John was pressed up against one of the boxcars with his gun drawn. He heard footsteps coming towards him from around the corner. The man took a deep breath and jumped out, weapon raised.

“Jesus fuck!” Scottie came skidding to a halt in front of him. “Watch where you point that thing!”

John exhaled and brought his arms down. “Are they back that way?”

“No, I thought you were following them?”

“Great,” John muttered, “so we lost them. Alright, I’m gonna circle back this way. Cover me.”

“With what?” Scottie called after the doctor, who was already darting off in the opposite direction through the maze of boxcars. “I’m unarmed, doofus!”

But Scottie didn’t even take a step forward when Emily came sprinting down another walkway towards him. 

She stopped next to him and doubled over to catch her breath. “I hate shipping yards,” the girl panted. “Not only does this feel like every stereotypical cop movie ever, unless we can get high enough to see over it, we’re just going to be wandering around this stupidly big place lost for the next hour!”

“Actually, that’s not bad thinking. Mind if I use you as a ladder?”

“Excuse me?!”

“H-Hold still!” Scottie instructed, already trying to get up on top of Emily’s back.

“Oh my God, no, what are you doing!” the girl gasped.

“I said hold still!”

As soon as Emily figured out what Scottie was up to she reluctantly helped hoist him up on top of the nearest boxcar. “Now help me up!” Emily demanded, stepping on her tiptoes and reaching out to Scottie above her. Scottie didn’t seem to notice (or perhaps he did and didn’t really care). Ignoring her, Scottie finished sliding all the way on top of the metal box and got to his feet.

“There they go!” the boy suddenly let out and ran to the opposite side of the boxcar’s top.

Emily slammed the palm of her hand against the metal wall. “Oi! Get your ass back here!”

Scottie stopped at the very edge of the boxcar. Below him he saw those they’d been chasing - a particularly attractive black couple likely in their twenties or thirties and dressed in all black. They didn’t seem aware of his presence. The man passed Scottie, and Scottie took a deep breath and shut his eyes just before he jumped down and landed directly on top of the girl. Upon impact the girl screeched and fell to the ground.

Her partner in crime stopped and whirled back around to see what had happened. He had only just taken a step forward when suddenly John, who was likely chasing them moments before, came running up from behind them. The doctor had both arms out in front of himself, weapon raised.

The ensemble was tense for a brief second before the girl shoved Scottie off of herself and started to get up. Scottie remained close to the ground after having been pushed to the side, on the off chance that bullets were about to start flying. Not that he didn’t trust John or anything. Instead John sprung forward and grabbed the girl’s forearm, weapon now pointed at her.

“You wouldn’t,” the other man said in a deep voice, eyes narrowing.

“I might,” panted John. “Pass it off as self defense. You know I could.”

The man swallowed and looked over his shoulder and then back at John. “Don’t leave me, baby,” the girl pleaded. “He won’t do it. You can take him. Freddy…?” The male - Freddy, apparently - hesitated for several more seconds before taking off around the corner. “FREDDY!” the girl screamed after him. “You bastard!” She tugged away from John, who pulled her back.

“Ooh, burn,” Scottie muttered as he got up again.

Sherlock must’ve heard them, because he eventually found his way to the site of the commotion. He had Emily with him again.

“Oh good,” the detective breathed.

“That’s one down,” Emily noted.

Sherlock dusted off his coat and came closer to John and the girl he was holding. “I imagine that was the hard part. The other is sure to follow, now that we have his friend.”

“Unlikely,” countered Scottie. “He kind of fucked off and left this one behind. Hard to say, but I don’t think they actually are friends anymore.”

“I can’t believe Freddy’d just ditch me like that!” the girl choked, throwing an incredulous look in Sherlock’s direction. “Like, did those three years mean nothing to him? I would’ve had his back!”

“Think of it this way:” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, “if he bails you out, maybe he does care after all.”

“And… if I already know that he won’t?”

The girl blinked up at the detective tearfully, and Sherlock smiled somewhat. “Then you can provide the Yard with all the information they need to bring him.”

\---

“Star-crossed cat burglar love story,” Lestrade mused, leaning over his desk to tuck away several papers in their appropriate files. “Catchy. Not that you’re interested in that part.”

Sherlock held a sizeable plastic container out in front of himself. Lestrade had just straightened and turned around in time to see the gesture. He glanced down at it suspiciously and then raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. “What’s this?” the D.I. asked.

“For you.”

Lestrade doubled over to peer into the container. He could now see that it was holding a laptop. Half a laptop, really. The rest seemed to be melted away and into a strange, metallic liquid substance that filled up the bottom inch or so of the container and then solidified. Straightening again, Lestrade folded his arms and frowned. “What do you expect me to do with that?”

The detective shrugged back. “It’s evidence. File it away, or whatever’s standard procedure.”

“Is it… toxic?”

“Minimally.”

Lestrade sighed and reluctantly took the container from Sherlock. “Oh, the things I do for you…” the man grumbled.

\---

After having come into the flat Sherlock threw off his coat and started to complain about something or another while no one else was really fully listening. He stopped mid-sentence as soon as he realized the entirety of John’s attention was being taken up by the computer screen in front of him. Sherlock frowned and snuck up behind the man to peer over his shoulder.

“Tilly Briggs Cruise of Terror,” Sherlock read. “I swear, you make it sound like you’re writing a series of young adult mystery novels. This isn’t Nancy Drew.”

“And if I had the patience for that maybe I would. But between my actual paid job and you and the kids constantly whisking me out of the flat I’ve hardly the time. Although I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to someone else turning us into fictional characters…”

Sherlock snorted and straightened his back. “Right. As if the populace doesn’t have better things to do than keep tabs on our lives.”

“That doesn’t count!” Scottie yelled loudly from the other room.

“Sure it does!” Emily shouted back. “If he had gotten there just a couple seconds later, who knows where that thing would have fallen!”

“Well certainly not on Sherlock, I can tell you that much.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What’s going on in there?” Sherlock asked John with a sidelong glance towards the kitchen, almost afraid to ask.

John leaned over the back of his armchair. “Oh, they’ve started a tally of how many times we’ve rescued each other. The Damsel-in-Distress Olympics, they’re calling it.”

“God. Are they really?”

John nodded. “Mm. It’s a big bet or something. They each picked one of us and at the end of the month whoever’s candidate had to be saved more times wins.”

“Wow. That’s almost more offensive than the other way around. Why is that a competition?”

“They’re children,” John shrugged, “everything’s a competition. Might as well let them have their fun.”

Sherlock left John’s side in favor of his own armchair. “I hope they realize just how many times we’ve both had to save their pathetic arses,” the detective huffed and made a bit of a show of dramatically kicking out his legs to cross them. “You’d need a considerably larger whiteboard.”

He sat quietly for several seconds, strumming his fingers along the chair’s arms, and then leaned sideways to try and see into the kitchen. Sherlock couldn’t get a good enough look at what Scottie and Emily were doing, however, and sat back again. After a moment of staring forward blankly he pulled out his phone from a pocket.

John grinned and went back to what he’d been typing. “Don’t pretend you aren’t at least a little curious about the current score.”

“I’m not.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock repeated, scowling back at John. John didn’t answer him, or even let his eyes leave his screen. With an exasperated sigh Sherlock set his phone down on the nearby table and jumped up to have a look at the scorecard. John immediately started to chuckle and shook his head.

There was a knock at the door and John looked up to see Mrs. Hudson, who gave her usual “ooh-ooh”.

“Got a couple walk-ins,” the landlady went on, stepping out of the way so that three young boys could enter flat.

“Hi,” the first of them started, giving an awkward little wave.

Emily and Scottie had been in the midst of fighting over the whiteboard marker while Sherlock frowned thoughtfully at their scoreboard from just behind them. When he heard the guests arrive the detective went back into the living room. Scottie and Emily paused and followed after him, but Scottie had barely started to round the corner when Emily grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him backwards.

“Oh my God, what?” Scottie hissed.

“Dibs on the cute one in the American Apparel jacket,” she told him and paused to untuck her hair from behind her ears before stepping out ahead of Scottie.

“Seriously?”

“Are you… the detective?” one of the boys asked.

“Yes. I assume you’re here about a case?” Sherlock asked, pulling a chair out from the dining room table and setting it in the center of the room. He only actually bothered to get the one seat, so the first of the boys awkwardly sat down it in it while his two companions positioned themselves just behind. Sherlock sat down again in his own chair and folded his hands in his lap.

The first boy nodded. “Yes. Um. I-I’m Chris. Chris Melas and, uh, these are my mates, Liam and Charles.” Charles and Liam kind of waved and nodded shyly, then went back to holding their hands down in front of themselves like the awkward teenagers that they were. “So. We have this website,” Chris went on. “It explains the true meaning of comic books, ‘cause people miss a lot of the themes.”

He had only just begun and already Sherlock was showing disinterest in his story. The man had stood up while he was speaking and was starting to walk away when the kid went on, saying, “But then all the comic books started coming true.”

Sherlock stopped for a moment and then backtracked.

“Oh. Interesting.”

Chris made a face. “Um… yeah. You see, our website focuses on all kinds of graphic novels, but most recently we’ve been analyzing the right-wing values promoted in the KRATIDES series. Traditionally superhero series are very liberal-based; power to the underdog and such when it comes to fighting for justice and freedom, but not KRATIDES. It’s… sort of easy to miss, I suppose, if you’re reading through them rather quickly, but quite a few times in it Professor Davenport--”

“Okay, you don’t need to… summarize the comics,” John interjected. “Just tell us what happened.”

“Graphic novels.”

“Pardon?”

“They’re… graphic novels,” Chris corrected. “Not comics. Comic are more like strips. For the newspaper, or webcomics. These are books.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who didn’t reply. He turned back to the boys. “But you called it a comic book earlier.”

“Yes?”

John blinked confusedly. “Just get to the point already,” Sherlock said, leaning forward. “What is this about them… ‘coming true’, as you put it?”

“Oh. Right. Well. Lately, we’ve started seeing KRATIDES characters out in the real world. Well, I did. It started with Sophy - that’s the Wolflady. I was at New Cross Station and caught her disposing of some unattended luggage. I almost didn’t believe it myself at first, thought my mind was playing tricks on me - you know, like daydreaming - but then the next day, I was out on Wadsworth Common when none other than The Flying Bludgeon himself swoops in, tackling a mugger! A-And these things, they aren’t random, either. They actually both happened in the most recent volume of KRATIDES that we’d just finished uploading our in-depth analysis of.”

John snorted, and Chris’ face fell. “Do you think I’m lying about all this?”

“What? No, I just mean… Well. Heroes from some comics? Seriously?”

“Graphic novels. And I’m not making it up,” Chris frowned. “Look.” The boy half-stood up and took his cell phone out from a back pocket. After a moment he got up the rest of the way and walked over to John, holding it out. John took the phone from over his laptop and examined the image placed in front of him. Scottie and Emily exchanged glances and then leaned over the chair to get a look at the photo of the blue-skinned man themselves. After a moment John passed the phone off to Sherlock.

“That’s Professor Davenport,” explained Chris, sitting again. “Outside Greggs. In Beckenham. Just like in the KRATIDES volume.”

“And neither of you saw these things yourself?”

“No, sir.”

There was a long silence that followed before Sherlock shut the phone and looked up again. 

“So… what do you think? Detective?”

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. “Three possibilities,” he finally let out. “The first of which being that KRATIDES actually exists.”

The boys exchanged glances at this, like they weren’t sure if they actually wanted to believe this or not. “Sherlock…” John warned.

“Well, either that or Melas is simply suffering from psychological delusions.”

Chris looked less pleased with this theory. “And… what’s the third possibility?”

“Cosplayers?” Emily offered. “Maybe there’s some kind of week-long convention going on.”

“That we haven’t heard of?” countered Charles, the (in her opinion) less cute of Chris’ assistants. Emily shrugged.

“The third possibility is that this was all being done for your benefit,” Sherlock finished his train of thought.

“My benefit? What could I possibly be getting out of all this?”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently. “Publicity. Recognition. Boosting popularity of your website, even KRATIDES itself. Anything along those lines.”

Chris seemed offended by this. “I would never--”

“Oh, I didn’t suggest you were behind it,” Sherlock quickly clarified. “But if this is the case, then whomever is orchestrating these sightings must have their reasons.”

Chris slumped back into his seat and took a deep breath. “Well. So what then? Can you help me?”

Sherlock stared back at the kid silently, fingertips pressed together just below his chin, for several long seconds before standing up again. This time he strode over to the dining table and found a strip of scratch paper and a pen, which he offered to Chris and asked the boy to write down the address of his website.

\---

“What’s the plan?” John asked. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

Sherlock had been in the midst of pacing back and forth across the living room. The consulting detective stopped suddenly and whirled around at John, who was once again stationed with his computer out, only this time at the dining room table.

“Jesus Christ…” John looked away.

“Well you aren’t exactly making yourself useful either, are you?” Sherlock threw back indignantly.

John shrugged. “At least I’m on their website trying. Just a lot of ridicule on the threads, though. Nothing that seems to suggest anyone knows anything about the supposed incidents.”

There was a loud buzzing on the table. John glanced over at his phone, which wasn’t the source of the noise, and then muttered “You should probably get that.”

“Nope,” Sherlock disagreed quickly, letting the sound of the consonant leave his lips with an exaggerated popping sound. John made a face and turned back to look at Sherlock. “It’s Melas,” the detective explained further. “The bloke’s been ringing every couple hours trying to see if we found anything. It almost makes me want to stop looking, if we’re being perfectly honest.”

“Oh, hang on,” John muttered. His eyes were back on the computer screen. Without looking over John waved a hand for Sherlock to come closer, and the other man did so curiously. “Check out this one user.” John pointed at the screen as Sherlock hovered over his shoulder.

“Kemp,” Sherlock read.

John nodded. “Aside from his assistants, this person seems to be the only one taking Melas seriously. Looks like they agree with your initial theory - the one about KRATIDES being real - and have done nothing but encourage Melas to spread this news onto different platforms. Twitter, Facebook, Google+... so on and so forth.”

“But why would this ‘Kemp’ care so much?”

“I… I don’t know,” John shrugged. The man clicked on the username, which took him to a blank profile page on the website. “There’s just a profile pic of a smiley face on here.”

“Guess who just cracked a case all by themselves?” a third voice suddenly interjected. John and Sherlock both looked up to see Scottie strutting triumphantly into the flat, Emily just behind him.

Sherlock straightened and crossed his arms. “Would that be the case of who neglected to change the toilet paper roll? Because I believe I’d already narrowed that one down to two probable suspects.”

“Sherlock. Be nice.” John rolled his eyes.

Scottie stuck out a tongue, then went right on with his announcement, arms folded behind his back and chin jutted out proudly. “Jimmy Melrose Jr.!” the boy began over-dramatically.

“JJ, as his peers came to know him by,” Emily chimed in.

“Yes, thank you,” Scottie glared back at her. “Jimmy Melrose Jr. - or simply JJ, as I was getting to - reported the theft. However, while the message went straight to Sherlock’s junk mail, JJ was fortunate that we saw it and came to his aid.”

“You were in my email?” Sherlock questioned, sounding vaguely annoyed.

Emily shrugged. “I may or may not regularly rotate between both of yours when signing up for things. It’s better than allowing the opportunity for a bunch of spam and ads to be sent to my own. I think this time we were retrieving the activation code for that one site with--”

“No, shut up and let me finish my story!” Scottie thrust his elbow into Emily’s side.

“Alright, geez, go,” she winced.

“Anyway, the object of focus was last seen in JJ’s possession at 8 AM sharp, when he first arrived on the scene and entered the building, but by noon it was already gone. Emily and I checked out the scene of the crime, made some notes, and examined a list of possible suspects who had access to the scene of the crime. Ultimately we ended up catching the culprit by searching through all their bags until we found the dinosaur.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Dinosaur?” the man repeated slowly.

Scottie nodded ever so seriously. “Yes. Dinosaur. Another case closed - up top!”

Scottie and Emily promptly high fived. But Sherlock didn’t look quite as proud of them as Scottie seemed to be implying he should be. “So, essentially you both performed multiple illegal search and seizures?”

“I mean they were only first graders,” shrugged Scottie. “They don’t know their Miranda rights yet. Or that we don’t actually hold any police jurisdiction. Really all they see are a couple scary grown-ups.”

“...It was a toy dinosaur,” John released slowly. He slouched back in his seat, wondering if that was supposed to have been obvious or not.

“Well congratulations on your recent success at the primary school,” huffed Sherlock, “but meanwhile, there are much more important things you could be doing with your time.”

Emily put her hands on her hips. “You’re just jealous that up-and-coming supersleuths Scottie and Emily are out on the field apprehending criminals while you’ve hit a slump right in the middle of what’s arguably the most interesting case you’ve had in weeks.”

“I haven’t hit a slump,” denied Sherlock. “In fact, John and I were just waiting for you two knuckleheads to get home to send you out on an errand.”

“We were?” John blinked.

“John’s taking you with him to purchase a copy of KRATIDES,” the detective went on.

“I am…?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I trust you can do so without getting too distracted?”

John sighed, reaching for his phone beside the laptop, and started to pull up Yelp to locate the nearest comic book store.

“And while you’re off doing that,” Sherlock went on, taking John’s computer from right in front of him and moving it to the other end of the table, “I’m going to see if I can get a favor from an old friend…”

\---

A taxi dropped John, Scottie, and Emily outside Gosh Comics, a rather sizeable comic book store in Soho. A little bell went off as each of them stepped into the store and John was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of colorful cartoons, the vast majority of which depicted scantily clad women and ridiculously buff men in copious amounts of spandex. Emily, on the other hand, spotted a familiar face in one of the aisles and excused herself from the group.

“Hey!” Emily let out, excitedly bounding over to Liam. They looked up, startled, and nearly dropped the stack of comic books he was holding.

Scottie looked over and wrinkled his nose. “Straight people, am I right?” he muttered to John with a hint of disdain in his voice. John frowned back at him but didn’t reply.

“Oh! H-H-Hi,” stammered Liam. “You’re…?”

“Emily.” The girl held out a hand and Liam moved the stack into his left arm to shake it.

“Right. You were at… the detective’s house.”

“We’re neighbors. Hang out there a lot, sometimes help out with cases when it’s convenient. Kind of like babysitting, but more exciting. And I don’t get paid.”

Liam smiled a little. “Sounds like fun. S-So, you’re kind of like Lady Moana, then?”

Emily blinked back owlishly. “Quien?”

“Assistant to P.I. Percy T. Williams,” Liam answered, smile fading. “You don’t… read a lot of graphic novels, do you?”

“Not… so much. No. Love the Marvel movies however,” Emily quickly tried to redeem herself.

“Something for everyone, I suppose.” Liam was grinning again.

“Yeah, KRATIDES sales have gone way up just this week,” the guy at the cash register was in the midst of telling John and Scottie. “We were almost considering taking the series off our shelves, but now? Now we’ve just about run out of the next volume, and we’re backordered, so I’m starting to worry we won’t get any more copies until next week, at which point there’ll be a new one anyway. Don’t get me wrong - just about everyone thinks that Melas character’s a real nut, either making the stuff up like a dumb prank or he actually thinks he’s seeing these things come to life - but on the off chance that he’s right, folks seem more than eager to get their hands on a copy and witness the next thing for themselves.”

“And what do you think?” pressed John.

The comic store employee shook his head and chuckled. “Load of bogus, if you ask me. Still, kept my hands on a copy of the last volume, reckoning the value might go up after all this is over with. Maybe next time Melas pops in here I’ll have him sign it, but he doesn’t stop by too often. Not with everyone in the comics world… you know. Pointing fingers and laughing.”

John nodded thoughtfully. “Any chance we could get a copy?” he asked.

The other man smirked a little. “See, you didn’t look the type, but something told me that’s what you were really after. S’all right. No shame in getting swept up in all the excitement.”

He bent over and pulled out the latest volume from inside his desk and set it down on the surface between them. “Nice touch bringing your son, however,” the man went on smiling. John smiled back, not bothering to correct him on the specifics of anything. “That’ll be five even.”

Scottie frowned. “But everything else in here is less than half that.”

“Supply and demand, kid,” the cashier shrugged.

“It’s so small, too!”

“Look, do you want it or not? I do have other customers.”

Scottie looked around at the rest of the store. He really didn’t; there was Emily and the socially awkward teen in the American Apparel jacket, and the comic book hub was otherwise empty.

“We’ll take it,” John answered, already digging out his wallet.

“So, is there someplace I can reach you if we have any developments in the case, or… whatever?” Emily asked, stepping closer to Liam.

The boy swallowed. “Well. There’s a submission box on the website. Or you should probably just call Chris. I-I didn’t really ever see anything, anyway. He just wanted Charles and I there for moral support. Probably wouldn’t have the courage to show up otherwise.”

Emily was quiet for a moment or so. “I’m asking for your number,” she finally explained. Blunt and to the point.

“OH. R-R-Right, of course. Uh. Um--”

Emily brought her phone up to its new contact tab and handed it to Liam, who took it and put in his number. After he handed it back she sent a quick text, saying, “And now you have mine as well.”

“Hey loser, we’re going now!” Scottie called out to Emily from the front of the store. Emily looked back, quickly said goodbye to Liam, and then hurried out of the store after Scottie.

“How’d your reunion with nerdy two-shoes go?”

“Fine,” Emily threw back. “You know, I think it might be a good thing for us to socialize a bit with more people our own age.”

“For you, maybe. Us introverts aren’t quite as keen on the idea.”

\---

They returned to the flat to find that in their absence Sherlock set up a little display regarding the case in front of the mirror above the mantel. Well, display is being generous. It really consisted of only a copy of the Professor Davenport picture Chris had shown them and a print-out map that had a building circled and labelled “Dark Robot Publishing Co. - KEMP” and then underlined several times.

“That’s not very impressive,” Scottie commented.

Sherlock promptly shushed him and held out an expectant hand towards John. “Oh!” the other man gasped. “Um…” He fumbled around for a moment with a plastic bag and then handed Sherlock the issue of KRATIDES from it. “Here.”

“You know what would help?” Scottie went right on as if the others were still paying attention to him. “Maybe dig out some of those colored tacks you keep around, stick some fancy-shmancy red strings between the objects--”

Without looking at John or Scottie, Sherlock taped the comic to the mirror next to the map and stepped back to admire his work.

Scottie tilted his head slightly. After a moment he let out a disappointed hum.

“Maybe it’ll cover more space if you tried opening it…?”

"What's this?" John asked, coming closer to the fireplace to stick a finger over the circled portion of the map.

"That would be the location of the computer from which our good friend Kemp works," Sherlock explained proudly. "A woman in my homeless network used to work in technology. I had her trace the IP address." John had pulled his hand back. Now Sherlock tapped an index finger against the mirror just below the map. “Dark Robot. Also in Soho.”

John backed up again and scanned his eyes from the map to the KRATIDES cover. The man folded his arms and tilted his head at a very slight angle. "It's the same publishing company," the doctor realized.

"So it would seem."

At this point Emily realized the others were now standing practically shoulder to shoulder. Not wanting to feel left out, she quietly scooted forward to insert herself into the line.

"So. Field trip?" the girl asked, looking up at Sherlock.

The detective broke off from the formation and started walking the other way. “Monday. They’ll be all closed up for the weekend by now.”

“Wh…” Emily turned around and frowned. “You mean after all that we’re still going to wait days to do anything?”

“What about your tech friend from the network?” offered Scottie. “You said she was able to track an IP address to Dark Robot; is it not possible for her to figure out who owns the computer from there? That way you could get a home address, or at least a phone number or email--”

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” Sherlock interjected.

John shrugged. “It’s not a bad suggestion, supposing it were possible, but how do we know Kemp is actually involved in the superhero cameos? It’s definitely a lead worth looking into, but… if this Kemp guy, whoever he is, works for the publishers of KRATIDES then he could just be encouraging Melas to spread his story in order to promote their product.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s behind any of it,” agreed Sherlock. “But we’ll find out for sure soon enough.”

More time passed and Chris’ frequent panicked calls didn’t become any less frequent. He even popped in again that Sunday morning to see why the investigators weren’t getting back to him, stressing how at this point he’d managed to drive away most of his friends and family with his claims. Chris was just about a wreck, to be quite honest, and yet Sherlock still made a point to avoid telling him any of their suspicions regarding Kemp and the Dark Robot Publishing Company.

By the time Chris had seen himself out and noon rolled around, Sherlock went back to busying himself with an unrelated project while the others lounged about in the living room and kept to themselves for a time.

“Oh, hey,” Emily suddenly let out and waved her hand in front of Scottie’s face to get his attention.

The boy grabbed her wrist and pushed the arm away. “Geez. What is it?”

“Liam just texted me. Apparently they’re short for their DnD tomorrow night and were wondering if we wanted to join them.”

Scottie wrinkled his nose. “That’s weird.”

“Could be fun,” Emily shrugged.

“Yeah. Or just incredibly weird.”

Emily held her phone down and frowned at Scottie. “What’s your problem?”

“Excuse me if I don’t want to hang out with a couple of greasy teenage boys you practically just met,” he grunted back.

Emily wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this, but she could feel herself getting angry. After a moment she picked herself up and stomped a foot down as if if trying to get a point across that she hadn’t quite made yet. “Do you know how many friends we’ve made since arriving here that aren’t at least in their 30s? Because I do: absolutely none. If fact, practically everyone I know now is a parental figure. So, yeah, excuse me if just once I want to pretend to be ordinary and go hang out with kids my own age.”

“Fine!” Scottie snapped back, making a point himself of not looking up. “Go be ‘ordinary’, whatever the fuck that means. See if I give a shit.”

“You’re an asshole,” Emily accused.

Scottie shrugged disinterestedly. “At least I don’t pretend to be otherwise. In any case, I don’t want you in my company anyway if you’re going to act like--”

But Scottie never did get to accusing her behavior of anything, because right then a copy of Crow Planet was launched across the room in his direction. The boy managed to flinch just in time for the book to smack into his shoulder as opposed to his face. “FUCK!” he let out upon impact.

Now upset himself, Scottie took up the book with one hand and stood up, preparing to hurl it back at Emily just as she was storming out of the room. He was unfortunately stopped by John, who came running up behind him yelling “Oi! No! Bad!” and confiscated the weapon.

\---

John returned from work in the early evening the following day. He found Sherlock working away at the dining room table, what John assumed to have been his lunch sitting on a plate nearby and virtually untouched.

The detective didn’t seem aware of John’s presence at first. As such, John stood awkwardly at the center of the room for several seconds before abruptly asking “Should I be concerned?”

Sherlock lifted his head towards the other man and blinked. “Should you be?”

“Well, the kids are being awfully quiet,” shrugged John. “Typically that’s a plausible cause for concern.”

“Ah.” Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, then took up a pencil and turned back to the large hardcover book he’d been looking over. “We’re playing hide and seek,” Sherlock said after a moment.

John had settled into his armchair. He cocked his head to the side. “We?” After thinking briefly John’s mouth widened again with understanding. “Oh! Now that is clever,” he exclaimed.

“I thought so, yes.”

John smiled and crossed his legs. “So. How did Dark Robot go?”

“Very insightful.” Sherlock set his pencil down once more. He turned in his seat to face John now. “Although I wasn't able to successfully identify Kemp, the company had a costume display in their lobby. It was more than obvious that one or more of the Dark Robot employees are involved in the KRATIDES appearances."

"Good. That's good, considering. Are you planning on telling Chris, then?"

"All in good time."

Sherlock stood up and pushed the book aside. Beneath it was the KRATIDES volume, which John hadn't even noticed he'd pulled off the mirror.

"Doing some light reading?" John teased as Sherlock brought the comic halfway across the room to him.

Ignoring him, Sherlock went ahead and flipped the thin book open to a page he had bookmarked. The page showed what appeared to be two ninjas facing off with one of the story's heroes.

"That's Latimer confronting two masked terrorists on Shaftesbury Avenue," Sherlock elaborated. "Tonight, specifically."

"And let me guess: we're going to cut them off?" John assumed.

"Well, ultimately, yes. And I intend to have Melas there to see it. I also contacted Kemp..."

"No," John uttered.

"Yes. 7:00, we're to meet him at the corner of Shaftesbury and Dean. In character."

Wrinkling his nose, John dropped the KRATIDES issue off on the end table beside his chair. "Why is it always theatrics with you?"

"I heard my name," a third voice interrupted. Scottie came into the living room.

"I assure you nobody said your name," Sherlock replied, turning. "Did you give up on me, then?"

Scottie snorted. "Dude. We stopped playing two hours ago when it became fairly obvious that you had no intention of looking for us."

Sherlock frowned. "Then what were you doing in my room all that time?"

While they were talking John had picked the issue of KRATIDES up again and started to look over that page and the following one.

"Oh well Emily told me not to say anything but I helped her tilt anything and everything at a roughly 45-degree angle from where you had it. And then she ditched me to hang out with Chris' loser friends and I took a shower."

"...Of course you did."

“Yeah I know, I really needed that shower.”

Sherlock pulled the KRATIDES volume right out of John’s hands and took it back to the dining room table. “You are aware that we don’t actually know karate, aren’t you?” John called after him. Sherlock shrugged.

“Karate?” Squinting now, Scottie looked from John to Sherlock. “Wait. Are there exciting action film things about to go down that I’m not yet aware of?”

“Sherlock certainly seems to think so,” exhaled John.

The detective whirled around and leaned up against the back of the desk chair with a tight smile.

“You’re serious about this?” John went on in disbelief. “And we’re going to, what, playfight this Kemp guy dressed up as Lamer for a bit before ripping his mask off in front of Chris like an episode of Scooby Doo?”

“Oh, can we please!” Scottie let out excitedly.

“Latimer,” Sherlock corrected. “And yes. That’s about the gist of it.”

John let out a long breath and pulled back a sleeve to have a look down at his wristwatch. He got up then and started towards the kitchen, muttering, “Well, I suppose I ought to get dinner started if we’re running out again in a couple hours.”

\---

"So... why couldn't Chris make it, again?" Emily inquired.

Liam hesitated briefly before answering. "Truthfully, it's not that he couldn't make it..."

"Oh." Emily looked away. "I see."

"It's not like that," Liam quickly tried to defend himself and Charles. "Chris is still our friend. He's just... been a bit of a handful lately. Every other thing out of his mouth is raving about KRATIDES being real. I mean, we're all fans here, but we know where to draw the line between real life and fantasy."

"We're worried Chris might be losing it," agreed Charles. "It’s probably good for him to keep to himself for a while. Until this whole raving like a madman thing blows over, anyway."

“But enough about Chris. What's Scottie’s deal?” Liam asked. “It is Scottie, right? Are you guys…?”

“Together?” Emily finished for him. “Oh, no. God no! That would be… No. Just no.”

“He’s your brother, then?”

Emily shook her head. “Not legally. But… might as well be, I suppose.”

Charles nodded. “Fair enough.”

“And why couldn’t he come, again?” asked Liam.

Emily shrugged. “Busy, probably.”

“Come now. It’s no secret he doesn’t like us. We can take it.”

Emily took a deep breath as she decided whether or not it was worth it to be completely honest in this situation. Ultimately she decided it was. “No offense, but he… kinda thinks you’re all geeks,” Emily winced.

Charles chuckled at this remark. “Well, he’s not wrong.”

“Yeah,” agreed Liam. “We are comic book geeks, and we’re not ashamed of it” - he paused briefly - “but that’s not the main difference between guys like us and guys like him.”

“Can I ask what is…?”

Liam smiled. “We have each other. Guys like him… They push everyone else away, thinking they’re doing the world a favor, and convince themselves that they’re fine. That they don’t need anyone. But they do, and they’re not fine. Only by the time they realize this, it’s too late and they’re all alone, and they have no one to blame for that but themselves. It’s sad, really. I’d almost pity him.”

“I… guess I do know the type,” Emily muttered, looking down.

“Anyway, it’s your roll,” Charles said with a nod towards the dice.

“Oh. Right. Of course.” Emily made a tight smile and reached for the 20-sided die, first looking up for Liam’s nod that she was going for the right one. With this confirmation she rolled the die. “Eight,” she announced afterward.

Charles flipped through a couple pages, asking, “Modifier?”

“What’s that again?”

Liam leaned over and pointed to a stat on the page out in front of Emily.

“O-Oh, uh, four?”

“Hm. That’s gonna miss.”

In another half hour the girl’s phone buzzed from her back pocket, and she pulled it out to see Sherlock’s caller ID come up. She thought this odd because the man usually only texted. “Hello?” Emily said into the receiver.

“Hello yourself,” Scottie’s voice answered.

“Who is it?” Liam asked curiously.

Emily held the phone down a little. “Scottie,” she told him.

Liam wrinkled his nose. “What does he want now?”

“I… assume he was about to tell me. What do you want now?” Emily asked into the phone now.

“Well, I was calling to inform you that… Wait. You’re not seriously still being pissy about what I said yesterday?” scoffed Scottie, already resenting her tone.

If eyerolls could be loud, Emily’s was particularly so, although she knew full well Scottie couldn’t see it. “I don’t want to get into it again.”

“You know, we’re kind of in the middle of a battle here,” Liam pointed out and gestured to the game board impatiently. Well, hand-drawn map over a grid, really. “Can’t you tell him to call you later?”

Emily took a deep breath. Scottie had already started to talk again, but she completely missed what he was saying when Liam talked over the beginning of it. “Look, Scottie,” Emily cut him off, “I’m with the guys right now. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“What? No! Don’t you dare hang--”

But she did hang up and started to put the cell phone away just as it began to ring again. “Ignore it,” Charles instructed.

Emily hesitated before listening to him and hanging up the incoming call. This time instead of putting it back into her pocket she set the device down beside herself.

“Anyway, so that’s going to be minus four--” Charles started to say when the phone buzzed once more.

“He’s texting now,” Emily explained, looking down at it.

“Can’t you turn the thing off?” Charles asked. “It’s distracting.”

“What if it’s something important though? He never did tell me why he was calling in the first place,” protested Emily. She reached for the phone once more but was beaten to it by Liam, who took the thing and started typing into it. “What are you doing?” Emily demanded.

“Maybe now he’ll take a hint,” Liam said and handed it back to Emily. Frowning, Emily looked down at the message Liam had just sent to Scottie as her.

\---

“Piss off!” Scottie read aloud angrily. “Piss off? Just who does she think she is, anyway!” With an incredulous huff Scottie shoved the borrowed phone back in Sherlock's direction.

"Then no matter; we won't wait up for her," Sherlock shrugged indifferently. "And you can go ahead and hold onto that for me. This thing doesn't have pockets."

Sherlock was, of course, referring to the ninja outfit he and John were both wearing.

"Okay but you have to admit," John started as he fastened up his laces, "this is by far one of your stranger schemes."

“Must you always get off on pretending not to enjoy these excursions?”

John huffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve read you blog, I know the kind of attention you get from retelling stuff like this,” Sherlock threw back.

“Alright ladies, that’s enough,” intervened Scottie. “You both look very pretty.”

“I know you meant that in a mocking tone,” John said slowly, “but I choose to take it as a compliment regardless. Anyway. Shall we?”

“Yeah hold up, I’m gonna text her the address just in case.”

“Melas should be waiting for you just outside the cinema up ahead,” Sherlock told Scottie. He was in the middle of pulling down the mask portion of his costume. “Remember: stick to the plan, don’t intervene until my signal.”

\---

Emily’s phone buzzed once more beside her. While the others weren’t looking she picked it up again and scrolled back to the earlier messages Scottie had sent her with Sherlock’s phone.

“I have to go,” Emily suddenly announced and jumped to her feet.

Liam lifted his head to her. “What? But it’s still so early.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Liam sighed and started to scoop his dice collection into a velvet bag. “Do you want my mom to give you a ride?” offered Charles.

Emily shook her head. “Oh, no, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll just take a cab.”

“Nonsense!” Charles’ mother exclaimed, coming into the living room. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you go out with a stranger at night.”

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Mitchell, but aren’t you more or less a stranger?”

The woman chuckled. “Oh, you’re just adorable!” Still smiling, she came further into the center of the room and touched Charles on his shoulder. “Do try not to scare this one away like the others, alright?”

“Mom!” the boy hissed back.

“What’s your address, dear?”

Emily looked down at her phone’s screen. “Um. Can you actually drop me at Shaftesbury and Dean?”

“Of course, dear. Are you meeting someone at the cinema?”

“Not as such.”

\---

After assuring Sherlock that he knew what he was doing and then being forced to listen to a recap of the scheme anyway, Scottie took off down the block towards a movie theater. Just as anticipated, there he found Chris. But Scottie barely got two words in when--

“Look! There! Latimer!” Chris suddenly let out, pointing at a man dressed in orange and yellow who came sprinting across the street past them, cape flowing behind. “Did you see him? Didn’t you?” Chris whirled around and met Scottie with wide eyes, as if he weren’t entirely sure himself if he was imagining the whole thing or not.

“Well what are you waiting for?” Scottie asked. “Go chase after him!”

“Right. Yes. Of course!”

Chris made a panicked look around the surrounding area before darting off after the guy who was dressed up as Latimer, Scottie in tow. The light had already changed by the time Chris and Scottie were running through the sidewalk. A car came whizzing by just behind them. Scottie yelped and nearly tripped over his own two feet in surprise but didn’t actually stop.

The two of them caught up with Latimer again at the mouth of an alleyway further down the block, where he was busy fighting off a couple of “masked terrorists,” just like in the comic.

They apparently weren’t the only ones at the scene, however. A handful of additional onlookers had joined them at this point. They were excitedly pointing and whipping out their cell phones as they whispered amongst one another.

The whole thing looked very staged, in Scottie’s opinion. He’d seen Sherlock and John in fistfights before, both onscreen and in person. That being said, the supposed Latimer clearly wasn’t all that great of a fighter and Sherlock and John were probably doing their best to make it look like a fair match.

And then Scottie saw the signal he’d been waiting for.

All at once Sherlock and John broke character and grabbed Latimer, knocking him to the ground. “That’s your cue!” the boy exclaimed. He tried to shove Chris forward. “Go unmask that motherfucker!”

Chris resisted at first. The other boy dug his heels into the ground, determined to remain rooted in place, but after a few moments he stumbled forward. At Scottie’s continued urging Chris took a deep breath and reached forward with trembling hands.

Scottie was about ready to just do the damn thing himself when Chris finally pulled the rubbery orange mask off of Latimer, revealing a chubby, red-faced man who somehow managed to look like even more of the comic book geek stereotype than Chris.

Suddenly Sherlock and John were fleeing the scene. Still masked themselves, they had taken off around the corner.

“You’re not Latimer!” Chris gasped (as if this were much more of a groundbreaking development than it really was). “Who are you?” he demanded. His hands were tight balls now and they continued to tremble, now more with rage than fear. Chris may’ve even been beginning to tear up a bit. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

Although Scottie was vaguely interesting in how the rest of this confrontation would go, he ultimately decided to slip back through the crowd and rejoin his friends.

As he circled the corner building onto the adjacent street Scottie could now see that Emily had come after all and was in the midst of being subject to a little prank.

Without having been informed of the night’s details beforehand, Emily was surprised, to say to least, to step out of Chris’ mother’s car and immediately be rushed by a couple of men covered in black from head to toe. She shrieked and started to flail as Sherlock hefted her up over his shoulder. Chuckling to himself, Scottie took up a jogging pace and followed after them.

Mrs. Mitchell had missed the memo as well and hopped out of the front seat in a panic. A couple feet further down the block Sherlock set Emily down again and pulled off his mask, still struggling to catch his breath from the fight just moments before.

“Oh my God, you completely dong!” Emily choked and slammed her fists down on Sherlock’s chest. “Were you trying to give me heart failure?!”

John laughed and took off his mask as well. “Couldn’t have you missing out on all the action, could we?”

“I beg to differ,” Emily threw back flatly. “It’s fine!” she called out with a wave, suddenly noticing Mrs. Mitchell standing outside of her car. “I’m fine.”

“Shit,” John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock turned his head. “What?”

John nodded forward. Two police officers had evidently witnessed the exchange as well and were making their way over. “I’ll be right back,” he promised and went forward to meet with them.

Scottie was at Sherlock’s side now. “You’re late,” he told Emily.

“So I’m lead to believe. What happened, anyway?”

“Oh the usual,” shrugged Sherlock. “Fighting crime, saving London. I’ve always thought of myself as a bit of a superhero, although I suppose the costume helps sell the image.”

Emily couldn’t quite tell to what extent Sherlock was kidding around now. “The usual?” she echoed with a raised eyebrow.

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay… But, what happened with Chris? Did you catch whoever it was messing with him? Was it actually this Kemp guy, or…?”

“Alright, slow down,” Sherlock replied. “Yes, it was Kemp. Although his exact identity is still a little fuzzy. Regardless, he hasn’t broken any laws as far as I’m aware, so there was nothing to be done about it except see that Chris learned the truth. Whatever happens with KRATIDES as a result of this is a bit up in the air for the moment.”

Emily nodded. “Okay. Hey, do you… mind if we had a minute?” she asked Sherlock.

The detective responded to this request by looking round at the kids and, after a moment of careful contemplation, he awkwardly backed up a couple of steps. Of course, he hadn't entirely left the general area, but this was apparently good enough for Emily, who turned her attention to Scottie now. The boy shifted uncomfortably.

“Hey… No hard feelings about earlier, right?” Emily bit at her lower lip, feeling very much guilty about the things that were said earlier. “I don’t… I don’t think that about you. And given the choice… Well, sure, it’s fun to spend time with Dungeons and Dragons dweebs every once in a while, but…” The girl hesitated. She wasn’t entirely sure where she was going with this.

Scottie shrugged indifferently. “Yeah. We’re cool.”

“Really?”

“Of course. Because… Well. Just so you know, even if those things were true, and, like, that was how you felt about me… it wouldn’t even matter. Because even though I think those guys are kind of losers and jerks, I’d rather you spend time with them over me, if it’s what you really wanted. Because - and really make an effort to treasure this because I don’t say this stuff lightly - because you’re my best friend and I…”

Scottie pursed his lips for a moment and held a fist up against them. “I love you,” he finished, lowering his hand by mere inches. “No hetero.”

Emily gasped and pressed her hands over her cheeks. “I love you too,” she said softly. “No hetero.”

“Hold up, I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.” The teenagers looked over at Sherlock, who had an index finger held up. “No, wait. Okay, we’re good,” the detective decided after a moment and let his arm drop again.

"Asswipe," Scottie chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps. In any case, if you two have any more gross touchy-feely stuff to get out of the way, I'm going to go make sure John isn't being arrested or anything."

Emily nodded. "Good call. You do that."

With a dip of his head Sherlock dismissed himself and made to assist John in conversing with the two officers.

"Can't believe I missed Sherlock and John reenacting a comic book scene," the girl sighed.

"Mm. Well, personally, I didn't think it was one of their best performances. They hardly even tried to sell the thing. Hell, you and I could've done a more convincing job!"

Emily snorted. "Yeah right. If you’ll recall, our last encounter with a ninja ended in one dead girl and you nearly getting a concussion."

“...Okay yes true, but this time we would’ve been the ninjas. Well, terrorists. Or something. I didn’t actually read the thing. But my point still stands!”

Emily looked at him doubtfully.

"I mean it," Scottie insisted. "You know, just once I'd like them to offer us the chance to play dress up and save the day."

"Well, maybe one day. Baby steps."

Sherlock and John must've sorted things out with the officers by that point because they were coming back over and looking unusually pleased with themselves.

"You know, not everything has to go on the blog," Sherlock was in the middle of saying.

"This one is most definitely going on the blog."

"Your blog consists purely of gross and tasteless entertainment. Why don't you write about that case with the melting laptop? There was at least more of a puzzle aspect to it."

"I certainly could, but that one doesn't have quite the same charm as the comic book heroes," John shrugged.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now John. Don't tell me you actually find them charming."

"Tell you what," John announced, "how about I write up the superhero case on my blog, you can get into specifics about the melting laptop on your website, and we can compare page views in the morning? Mm?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the other man reproachfully.

"YOU'RE BOTH PRETTY!" Scottie shouted once more, stepping in between the two of them forcefully. Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes. Fighting back a grin, the consulting detective pushed the boy's head away playfully and took off back down the sidewalk.


	3. The Speckled Derp

Emily strolled into the morgue carrying a paper bag, which she swung side to side carelessly. “Alright, I know it’s insanely early, so I took the liberty of stopping by that cute little cafe across the street and picking up pastries for everyone. Thankfully the clerk didn’t remember me from the last time we were over there making fun of everyone’s accent.”

“Well aren’t you turning into quite the adult,” Scottie mused. “First Mrs. Hudson finally teaches you how to do your own laundry, now you’re getting up before noon and ordering things by yourself…”

“I know, right? I’ve just been adulting all over the place this week! Anyway, dibs on the croissant, and I’ve also got a cinnamon roll, a blueberry muffin, a blueberry scone, and I’m not entirely sure what this one is but I think it’s got some kind of almond filling?”

“Okay, see, this is exactly why they shouldn’t be allowed into places like this!” blurted Lestrade as he gestured to Emily frustratedly.

Emily pouted. “Because I come bearing baked goods?”

“Because, not unlike a crime scene, the morgue is no place for children. And yet I finally give in and let you step inside the precinct all of once, and suddenly here you are, waltzing in with muffins and scones like you own the place!”

“And a croissant and a--”

“No. You don’t get to brush everything off with a snarky comment.” The D.I. furrowed his brows at the girl and folded his arms in as much of an authoritative manner as physically possible. “You shouldn’t be in here and you know it. For legal reasons, and also you’re far too young to be exposed to… well…” Lestrade gestured to the slab.

“I’ll take the muffin,” John said, putting out an expectant hand.

Emily glowered at Lestrade just before fishing a napkin and the muffin out of her paper bag and handing that to John. She then took out the croissant for herself and passed the bag off to Scottie, who started rummaging through it.

“So what are we looking at this time?” Emily said loudly between mouthfuls of her pastry. The bakery trip had been an obvious play to avoid having to see a dead body, but she didn’t say anything about this now that she was back with the others and still forced to be in close proximity to the victim. Her face did plenty of talking for her, however.

“Meet Julia Stoner,” Sherlock replied from where he’d been standing over a body of a middle-aged woman that was laid out on a metal slab. He turned slightly and lowered a magnifying glass. “Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, cause of death as of yet unknown.”

“Unknown?”

“John’s in the middle of autopsy, apparently. Or he was.” Sherlock glared at John, who had already gotten halfway through his muffin.

“Mm.” Emily swallowed. “What’s with all the… those bits?” She gestured around the general area of the deceased with the pinkie of the hand that was holding her croissant.

“Speckles?” Scottie said.

“Yeah.”

The boy shrugged. He had apparently claimed the blueberry scone and set the bag with the rest of the goodies down on a nearby surface. Very obviously eyeing the thing, Lestrade chewed on his lower lip and resisted the urge by forcing himself to turn his back to the pastries.

“Right, yes,” John said and handed off the remainder of his muffin to Lestrade, who didn’t particularly look like he wanted it at first, but took a bite as soon as soon as he thought no one else was looking.

John wiped his hands off on his pants and went back up to the body, clearing his throat. “Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock blurted suddenly and without prompting.

John glanced up at him. “Where d’you think our clients come from?”

“I have a website,” Sherlock pointed out indignantly.

“In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website.”

Sherlock frowned and looked round at the others, who avoided his gaze.

“Right then,” John went on as if uninterrupted. “As you’ve said, dyed blonde hair; no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are.” The doctor pointed to the red dots around the victim’s face and then looked up at Sherlock to see if he had anything to add concerning them. However, Sherlock had already fucked right on out of the room.

“Perhaps you hurt his feelings about the website thing?” Emily offered.

John sighed. “He’s the one who’s always bringing it up… Oh. Hang on.” The man shuffled around the edge of the table and leaned in to have a closer look at the victim’s right ankle. “See that?” he pointed with a pinkie finger.

“No,” Scottie and Emily both answered without bothering to look.

“Two puncture marks.” John straightened. “Like she’d been bitten by a snake or something. I’d like to have her bloodstream tested, just to be sure, but it’s the first lead we’ve got.”

“Still doesn’t explain the speckles,” commented Emily.

“Shush. One thing at a time.”

\---

John stopped in front of the stoop to 221 Baker Street and frowned as Scottie and Emily walked past him. The man set down his own grocery bags and grabbed them each by the back of their shirts, pulling them back with simultaneous yelps.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded, directing their attention to a little bronze plaque infused in white door frame that read LEWIS AND CLAUS INVESTIGATIONS, 221C BAKER STREET.

“Us!” Emily said happily. She slung a grocery bag further up her shoulder to stop it from sliding off. “Well, Scottie and I. Our last names. Get it? Lewis and Claus? Because it sounds like-”

“I know what it sounds like. Care to explain what it’s doing there?”

Scottie blinked up at John innocently. “Oh. Um. Well, you know how you kept nagging at us to get a job?”

John pinched at the bridge of his nose furiously. “A real job. With an actual employer. How much did this cost, anyway?”

“I dunno,” Emily shrugged, “but it’ll probably show up on your bank statement if you want to check.”

“...you little shits.”

Emily frowned and pushed open the already unlocked door. “I don’t think he likes it,” she told Scottie as they entered the foyer.

“Nonsense. We spent all that time compromising on a font. It’s impossible not to like.”

John pushed past the both of them then and stomped upstairs and into 221B with his portion of the groceries. Scottie smiled guiltily at Emily as they trailed after the man.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded loudly from up ahead.

“Probably,” droned Sherlock. “Are you going to specify?”

Scottie and Emily entered the flat through the doorway to the kitchen and set their bags down on the table for John to put away later. They hovered in the kitchen doorway then as John proceeded to talk at very much not an indoor volume.

The doctor threw an accusatory finger at Scottie and Emily. “These two boneheads had a plaque installed outside the building!”

“Oh.” Sherlock nodded and started to direct his attention back towards whatever it was he’d been previously interrupted from. He was seated in his armchair with a stack of papers in his lap that he was in the middle of flipping through. “Yes, I saw the plaque,” the man muttered. “Looks nice.”

“That… No. No, it’s not nice. It’s… Did you read the plaque?”

“Yes. Lewis and Claus Investigations. Catchy.”

Emily and Scottie exchanged smug glances.

“And you’re not at least mildly concerned that the kids are attempting to set up a rival detective agency next door?” pressed John unhappily.

Sherlock merely shrugged. “Should I be?”

“YES!”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, lifting his gaze. “They’re not any good. I see no reason that it should hurt my business.”

“Excuse you? Not any good?” Scottie huffed and started to roll up his sleeves. “Why I oughtta--”

Emily instinctively pulled Scottie back by his shirt collar. “See?” she said, bounding up to John’s side. “Sherlock says it’s fine!”

“No, Sherlock simply doesn’t have the energy to put up with your… your everything and intervene like a mature adult ought to! Besides,” John said, “technically it’s not even legal for the both of you to solve cases on your own. You haven’t got PI licenses.”

“Does Sherlock even have an official PI license?” Scottie wondered aloud.

“Doesn’t he?” John frowned and looked over at Sherlock, who had gone back to what he was in the middle of, already bored with the previous conversation. John turned back. “Well. No matter. It’s different for him, anyway.”

“How so?”

“Because he’s an--”

“Don’t say adult,” interrupted Scottie. “That’s like, literally your only excuse for not letting us get away with the same shit that Sherlock does. I swear to God, John. If you pull that card one more time I will punch you. In the crotch. With my fist.”

“...will you now.”

“Absolutely.”

John squinted. “Right. Emily, will you start up your computer and begin compiling a list of phone numbers from local zoos?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Emily saluted John and strode across to room to where her computer was already out on the dining room table.

“I told you to stop… never mind,” the doctor sighed.

Sherlock lifted his chin with renewed interest. “Oh? Did we find something?”

“We,” John echoed mockingly. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Two tiny puncture marks on Miss Stoner’s right ankle. I suspected a snake bite, so I had a couple of tests run and confirmed that there were, in fact, traces of poison in the woman’s bloodstream.”

“Got the first one,” Emily announced loudly from where she was hunched over in front of the computer screen.

John started towards her but suddenly stopped and faced Sherlock again. “By the way,” the man went on, “why did you just storm out like that? Even Lestrade was surprised.”

Sherlock made no attempt to answer, but wouldn’t have had time anyway before Emily started calling out the number: “44 20 744--”

“Yeah, hang on a minute!” John snapped as he went over to the dining table. The man fished around the clutter for a pen and a scrap of paper, which he stuck in front of Emily. “Write it down,” he instructed. “More than one, preferably.”

Emily made quite a show of letting out an exasperated sigh and leaning back in her seat before hunching over and beginning to jot the number down on the paper John had given her.

Sherlock leaned over the arm of his chair. “Are you planning to inquire about any escaped snakes?” he asked, already seeming to know the answer.

“Yes,” John told him regardless.

Scottie had come over behind Emily’s shoulder at this point. “I’ve about had it with these mothafucking snakes on this mothafucking plane,” he quoted playfully.

The girl stopped what she was doing and glanced back at him. “Oh. I didn’t know you’d seen that one.”

He shrugged. “I haven’t. But when has that stopped me before?”

“Hey, can we solve a case on a plane? How cool would that be?” Emily asked no one in particular, suddenly looking excited.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. “That’s… generally not how picking up cases works.”

“They did something like that in a Castle. I’m just saying, it would be cool.”

“I’ve never been on a plane before,” Scottie shared.

Emily looked back at him once more. “Oh yeah, that’s right! It’s kind of fun. You should. Also--”

“Scottie, stop distracting Emily!” John yelled suddenly, effectively breaking up their conversation.

“I’m not--” the boy started to protest.

“I don’t want to hear it. Would you start putting away the groceries?”

Scottie’s face fell. “Wh… Seriously?”

“Scottie. Please.”

Scottie let out a whine in the back of his throat but crossed to room back towards the kitchen and started unpacking the first of the plastic bags without further complaint. Having finished scribbling down one of more of the zoo phone numbers, Emily got up and slapped the paper to John’s forehead with a cheerful “boop”. It wasn’t a Post-It Note and therefore didn’t stick in the least, which didn’t help John look any less irritated by the whole thing. Letting out a weary sigh, the doctor bent over to scoop the paper up off the living room floor and took it out of the room and up the stairs, probably towards his bedroom, where he was less likely to be harassed by the kids.

Sherlock sat quietly and contemplatively for several more seconds before getting up and gliding to the front of the room, where he reached for his coat.

“I’m headed out,” Sherlock called from the doorway. He was in the middle of doing up the buttons on his coat. “Scottie, you’re the man of the house until I get back.”

“Awesome, where do you keep your kerosene?” came the boy’s response from somewhere in the kitchen. Judging by the clanking around he was making in there, one could assume that Scottie had already gotten distracted from putting food away and was instead busy searching through the cabinets.

The detective stopped what he was doing, his hands still in mid-buttoning position, and stared forward blankly for some time. “I’m headed out,” Sherlock repeated after he’d finished taking the time to process. “Emily, you’re the man of the house until I get back.”

“Aye aye, capt’n!” Emily called out from where she’d been sprawled out over the sofa and made a half assed attempt at saluting him without moving the rest of her body. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and shut the front door behind himself.

“Wait no I’m serious!” Scottie cried and stumbled off of the countertop and into the living room. “Where’s the… Oh he’s gone. Emily, you don’t by any chance remember where he keeps kerosene do you? I need it for… science. Yes.”

The girl hesitated for a moment before getting up and coming towards him. “Yeah; hold up, I’ll show you.”

\---

Sherlock came back within the hour to find the fire alarm going off. The air smelled of smoke although none was visible from the ground floor. Gritting his teeth, the detective marched back up the stairwell and into 221B, where he found John in the middle of the room, fussing around with the blaring fire alarm. Mrs. Hudson hovered nearby, hands pressed over her ears and grimacing, and Scottie and Emily sat guiltily on the sofa.

A glance toward the fireplace explained the whole scenario to the consulting detective, and honestly, he wasn’t quite sure whether to be upset or amused that the kids had actually gone through with their scientific experiment.

“We wanted to make colored flames,” Scottie told the detective guiltily.

Ignoring him, Sherlock went up to his flatmate and took the alarm from him. Rather than attempting to actually quiet the thing, Sherlock instead took the fire alarm into the kitchen and shoved it into the fridge. The alarm was considerably quieter from there, but although muted, it certainly hadn’t stopped.

John kept his hands lifted in confusion. “Really?” he blinked. “Was that necessary?”

“We’re working a case, remember? No time for fun and games.”

John threw an incredulous look in Mrs. Hudson’s direction, who shrugged at him in response, and then back at Sherlock. “Did that look like fun to you?”

“I just got back from Julia’s house,” Sherlock went on uninterrupted, “where she lived with her sister, Helen, and her stepfather, Doctor Roylott; big name in the cosmetics industry, or so they kept insisting. In any case, Helen said Julia had been feeling run down in the days leading up to her death, but otherwise hadn’t the slightest idea of what may have happened to her. And they both seemed genuinely devastated by the incident, although that doesn’t necessarily clear anyone.”

“Okay,” John replied slowly. “And I got off the phone with the third closest zoo fifteen, twenty minutes ago. No reports of escaped snakes from their end. And that was about when these bozos--”

“Yes, I can see what happened here,” the detective interrupted once more. “I was going to head to her fiancé's residence next. Percy Armitage.” Sherlock held up his phone, which had the address already typed into it. “Baker Street was on the way going the other direction and I figured, if you were about done goofing off, you might want to join me.”

John folded his arms unhappily but didn’t reply.

“The cab I took is waiting outside. I haven’t got all day for an answer.”

John looked between Emily and Scottie, who shrugged, smiling, before he said “Fine. But these two aren’t allowed home unsupervised anymore.”

“I have zero complaints with that,” Scottie stated calmly. 

John’s brows wrinkled the way they usually did when he’d about had it up to here with their shit, and made an even more obvious display of his current emotion by taking Scottie and Emily’s ear, one in each hand, and pulling them with him towards the foyer. The kids let out a series of protests at this and Mrs. Hudson gasped gently, pressing her fingers to her lips.

“They’re fine,” Sherlock assured the landlady, looking back at her. “This is how he shows affection. I think.” Sherlock smiled guiltily at Mrs. Hudson just before whirling around and following after them down the stairs, leaving the door to 221B wide open.

Outside the building John spotted the parked taxi and yanked open the side door, forcefully ushering Scottie into it and then seating himself between the boy and Emily.

“Why are you being so touchy?” Emily whined.

“I’m being touchy because I stepped out of the room for a half hour and you two managed to nearly burn the flat down!”

Scottie looked out the window moodily. “But science,” he muttered.

“With your constant involvement Sherlock’s line of work your lives are in danger half the time anyway,” John continued to lecture. “The last thing we need is you doing… stupid teenager shit on top of that!”

Emily, too, looked away from John and out of her own window facing the flat just as Sherlock was coming out of it. “Well, sorry for being stupid teenagers.”

“You should be. It’s only charming up to a point.”

Sherlock climbed into the front passenger seat, shut the door behind himself, and reminded the driver of the address they were going to. As the car started the detective leaned over the side of his seat to have a look at those in the back. John was staring straight forward bitterly while Emily and Scottie each were leaning towards their respective windows, faces nearly pushed into the glass.

“Oh, so we’re not talking now,” Sherlock figured. He shift his weight and repositioned himself forward in the passenger seat. “Good. I like it better when you’re all quiet.”

\---

Percy Armitage had a very lumberjack feel about him. He wasn't a particularly big man. Rather, he was average height. Fairly lanky. Really it was probably the combination of denim jeans, his plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, and a beard just short of putting Hagrid's to shame.

When Sherlock and co. arrived in front of his flat, Percy was already sitting on the front stoop, apparently waiting for them.

Percy looked up when the others stopped in front of him. "Mr. Armitage?" Sherlock asked coolly.

"That would be me." Percy got to his feet and stuck out a hand, which Sherlock accepted with a false smile.

"Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade informed you that I’d be dropping by again at some point?"

“Well. Yes, but he didn’t mention that the whole family would be joining you.”

The consulting detective looked back at John and the kids and then faced Percy again. "Oh. Yes, they… do that. Sometimes. Might we come in?"

"Oh. Right. Of course, just ah... Just a sec." The man fumbled around with his key ring for a moment before locating the right key and sticking it into the flat's front door lock. Except that it wasn't the right key, even, and Percy switched to a second key, looking embarrassed.

This time the door swung open and Percy lead the group inside his uncomfortably small abode.

"So... I'm assuming this is about what happened to Julia, right?" Percy asked, turning to face them once they'd all managed to squeeze through the tight entryway and into the living room. "Oh, please have a seat!" The man gestured to the single sofa he had which, to be perfectly honest, didn't look like it could fit all of them and once, nor did they want it to, judging by the questionable stain that took up a good half of it.

"Um. We're good," Emily answered for the group.

"Yes, we're investigating the unusual circumstances behind your fiancé' death," Sherlock said.

"Good. That's... good. That someone's looking into it, I mean. Terrible stuff, really."

"Do you mind if we ask you a couple questions?"

Percy scratched at his enormous beard. "Yeah, sure. Shoot."

"When was the last time you saw Julia?" Sherlock questioned.

“I thought the police asked that already?”

“We’re not exactly with the police,” John told him. “So we’d appreciate it if you just told us what you told them.”

The other man sucked in a breath which he held for a moment and then pushed out loudly. "Two days ago, probably? We were, uh, putting together the registry, actually. For the wedding. God."

Percy's voice cracked suddenly and he held a fist over his mouth, looking like he might start to cry. Sherlock looked to John, who then asked Percy if everything was alright.

Percy shrugged. "Yes. I mean, no, but... I'm fine. I'll be fine. It's just..." He paused to stare up at the ceiling, hands on his hips. "I can't believe she's gone. It's like. It doesn't even feel real, you know?"

Scottie had gotten bored at this point and slipped away from the group to snoop around Percy's flag. There didn't seem to be much to explore. The tiny kitchen was attached to the living room with no real indication of where one room started and the other began, and a very short hallway was at the other end of the living room that branched off into a bathroom and a single bedroom.

Emily noticed him leave. Apparently Sherlock and John either didn't see or were too engulfed in their conversation with Percy to care. She waited another minute or so, quietly shifting her weight from one leg to the other while Percy went on and on about how Julia was the love of his life and how terrible he felt about how much pressure the wedding plans were putting on her, judging by how worn out she was all the time recently. Finally Emily gave up trying to feign interest altogether and went to check in with Scottie in Percy's bedroom.

"Yo," she greeted. "You conducting your own investigation in here?"

"I was just about to go get you," Scottie said. "Look!" The boy suddenly took Emily by her wrist and pulled her to the opposite end of the room where there was a door that she had assumed would lead to a closet.

Scottie let go in favor of pulling the door open, revealing not a closet, but a small study. Towards the center of the room was a glass table with nothing but a desktop computer and a lamp.

"God, it's like before laptops were a normal thing for everyone to have and parents used to dens or computer rooms or whatever," Emily shuddered. "It's the dark ages!"

Scottie rolled his eyes a little. "That isn't what I was trying to show you."

He then led her around the desk, where she could now see there was another table pressed up against the wall with something like a sizable fish tank sitting on top of it.

"Probably don't get too close," Scottie warned.

"What? Why?"

The boy clicked on the lamp sitting on the desk behind them and the room suddenly lit up from its center, very clearly showing now that the glass tank was not one for fish, but a large snake piled on top of itself and possibly sleeping.

"Aw... It's so cute!" Emily squealed, her face lighting up. And bent forward and placed her hands on her knees to smile through the glass and blow kisses at the animal.

"That's not the reaction I was expecting," Scottie admitted.

"Oh, but look - there are two of them! Snake friends! Aaaah I want to hold them! Do you think they're friendly?"

"For fuck's sake! Emily!"

The girl's face fell and she straightened. Emily turned to face Scottie again, wondering just what his problem was right now.

"In case you forgot, John's tests showed that Julia had died of poison, and he found that snake bit on her ankle."

Emily pointed towards the snakes. "You don't think... one of these lil' guys did it? But they're so cute! And who keeps poisonous snakes as pets? Is that even legal?"

"I'm just saying, maybe don't try to pick one up. And semi-related, what the fuck is he thinking not giving them a heated light?"

"We should probably tell Sherlock, I suppose."

“There you two are,” a man’s voice said from behind them. Scottie and Emily both jumped a little and spun around to find Percy, half covered in shadow, standing in the doorway. He pulled the door open even further, which allowed in more light that overpowered that of the desk lamp.

“Sorry, were just…” Emily hesitated, trying to think of a good enough excuse to explain their snooping. “Scottie has issues sticking to one place,” she ultimately decided.

“Oi!”

“I went to make sure he wasn’t getting into any trouble.”

“Oh. Alright, well… If you’d kindly come back to the living room, that’d be great,” Percy said. He got out of the way so that Scottie and Emily could pass him on their way through his bedroom.

“Um. Yes. Right. Sorry.”

They could see now that Sherlock and John were hovering by the doorframe to the hall they’d come through on their way in.

“That’s really cool that you have snakes, though,” Scottie said, emphasising the word ‘snakes’ so that he was sure Sherlock and John hadn’t missed it.

“Oh, so you did see that,” Percy said. He shut the study door and turned toward them again, now at his other side. “I didn’t want to startle you. I know they’re not… super popular with everyone that comes over.”

“Is that why you keep them in the dark in there?” John inquired.

“Actually they used to be in here, but uh, when Julia started spending the night she, uh… Well, she wasn’t a fan, to say the least. She was terrified of Miss Susie and Betsy, actually, even though I told her they’re harmless.”

“Miss Susie and Betsy?” echoed Sherlock skeptically.

Percy shrugged. “Friend’s nieces named ‘em. I thought it was cute.”

“Fair enough.”

“Does Miss Susie have a tugboat?” muttered Emily.

“And might it, perhaps, happen to have a bell?” Scottie added on.

“Not now,” John warned.  
Percy narrowed his eyes at the children. After a moment he shook his head and turned his attention back to Sherlock and John. “Anyway, Julia’s been begging me to rid of the girls for… God, what’s it been, a year and a half now? Year and eight months?” Percy went on. “But I couldn’t do that, of course. I had Miss Susie and Betsy long before Julia was in the picture. I loved her, obviously, but I sure as hell love them too and I told her the snakes were staying. I was very clear about that, and she eventually compromised with having their cage moved into the study and the door shut whenever I wasn’t going in and out. I guess…” Percy swallowed hard and eyed the study door. “Well, I suppose now I could probably bring their table back in here.”

“Do you mind if I have a look?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

Percy blinked back. “Oh. Um… Yeah, I s’pose so.” The man turned and opened the door once more and stepped to the side so that Sherlock could pass him and Scottie and Emily and step into the study.

The light was still on there. Sherlock skirted around the desk and came closer to the snake cage, squatting down in front of it while the others waiting patiently outside the room. “Red tail boas,” Sherlock said half to himself.

“Yup,” confirmed Percy, poking his head inside.

The detective was about to get up when he noticed another glass box on the floor stashed beneath the table. He reached up and took the lamp from the desk. Now holding the lamp closer to the floor, he positioned it sideways so that the light could better reach across the carpet under the table. This new light hit the front of the smaller glass box on the floor and Sherlock could now see that it was a second cage, holding a third and considerably smaller snake. The reptile was more than halfway hidden beneath bedding material but bright black, yellow, and red, protruded from it in two different spots.

“Red and yellow, kill a fellow,” Sherlock whispered, stiffening.

“Sorry?” Percy called. “What was that?”

Leaving the lamp on the floor, Sherlock stood up and stepped out of the study, shooing Percy away from the door in the process and shutting it himself. “You failed to mention that you have a third snake,” he said, meeting Percy’s eyes. “A coral snake, in fact.”

“Is that bad?” Emily asked, looking sidelong at Scottie, who simply nodded in return.

“Oh, yeah. He’s a rescue. He’d only been here a couple days. Some mates and I decided to take some time off of dealing with the whole wedding thing, since that has been pretty stressful. We went hiking out of the city and found that guy, partially run over. I’ve been calling around, trying to find a vet that can help ‘im, but then there was the news about Julia, and… well…”

“And you do realize that the coral snake is venomous?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course,” Percy nodded vigorously. “Don’t worry; I’ve been extremely careful. Except for initially getting him into the cage he hasn’t been handled at all. The boys just thought I was the best one to deal with him for the time being.”

John came further into from the hallway into the bedroom. “Is there any chance that it may have gotten out at some point?”

Percy looked confused. “I just told you, I haven’t handled the snake since putting him in there in the first place. If he’d gotten out he wouldn’t still be in there. Again, I was very careful. I’ve kept snakes for thirteen years without so much as a single incident. This one’s venomous, sure, but I’m not too stupid to handle it.”

“And what did Julia say about you bringing the third snake in?”

“I… didn’t tell her,” Percy admitted. “But I assumed it would already be gone before she was back here.”

“So Julia hasn’t been in your flat since you took it in?”

Percy shook his head. “No. God, no. Look, if you have any more questions that you think would be helpful I’m more than happy to stick around and answer them, but otherwise I’ve got a business dinner tonight that I should probably start getting ready for.”

John looked to Sherlock expectantly. “I think that’ll be it for now. Thank you for your time, Mr. Armitage,” Sherlock said.

“Of course. I’ll show you out.”

After Percy had led them back out and shut the door behind them John wasted no time in pulling out his phone. “I’m calling animal control,” he announced determinedly. “I don’t know how, but that thing definitely killed Julia, and we’ve got to get rid of it before it hurts anyone else.”

“You go ahead and do that,” Sherlock told him, “but I wouldn’t be so quick to draw a conclusion.” He paced down a walkway along the side of the building and out toward the sidewalk just ahead of the group.

“Why do you say that?” John asked. He had the phone out already but didn’t start to use it just yet.

“We definitely found a snake bite on Julia,” Emily reminded them. “Or a really tiny vampire bite. But let’s stick with snake.”

Scottie nodded. “Yeah, and Percy just randomly happens to keep snakes, one of which is a poisonous wild snake that hasn’t been around all that long. Coincidence? I THINK NOT!”

“Even you gotta admit there’s something awfully suspicious about this, Sherlock,” Emily concluded.

They’d reached the street now and Sherlock stopped again and allowed them all to catch up to him. “Percy said Julia hadn’t ever been in the flat at the same time as the snake,” he said.

John shrugged. “She could’ve come in when he wasn’t there. They’re engaged. It’s very possible.”

“Percy said the snake never got out. If Julia died from a bite from that particular snake, then Percy would have had to known it was loose and put it back.”

“Then Percy lied,” Scottie accused. “If he had intended on murdering his fiancé, then he would have let the snake out himself and put it back. He obviously knows a lot about snakes. He seemed capable enough of handling it without getting himself injured.”

“And if that were the case then Percy would have had to either transport her body back to her father’s house, where it was found, unseen by Roylott or Helen, or snuck into the house and set the coral snake upon Julia there, which is just as unlikely.”

“But… not impossible?” Emily guessed.

Sherlock hesitated. “Leave it at unlikely,” he answered. “The first is impossible, considering our timeline.”

“Helen was with Julia hours before her time of death,” John remembered slowly.

“Precisely. So, unless Helen is lying too about her involvement in the incident, which is doubtful, Percy wouldn’t have been able to bring Julia in already dead.”

“And what about the second one?” Scottie asked.

“Helen might not have known if Percy broke in?” Emily offered. “And where was Doctor Roylott during all of this, again?”

“Julia reportedly came in around eleven. Roylott was already upstairs in bed. Helen discovered something was wrong with her sister when she went in to check on her in the morning after Julia didn’t come in for breakfast. In regards to Percy breaking into the house to set the snake on Julia… that in part depends on whether or not Percy’s alibi for the evening checks out.”

“Either way, I’m calling animal control on that guy,” John announced, already beginning to search online on his phone for the correct number.

\---

Sherlock was standing in the window with its curtains pulled apart, his back to John. He had one hand on a hip and with the other rubbed at the bottom of his chin, staring distractedly down at the street below. He’d been like this for some time before Emily called out his name from the kitchen. He ignored her at first, and so she repeated it, louder this time:

“SHERLOCK!”

“What?” the detective growled and did a 180.

“When asked about her birthday, a young woman gives the following information,” Emily seemed to be reading from something in front of her. "‘The day after tomorrow, I turn 22, but I was still 19 on New Year's Day last year.’ When is her birthday?”

Sherlock frowned across the living room and kitchen to where Emily was and she looked up, beaming innocently.

“What game is this again?” Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed.

“Professor Layton,” she answered.

“And why did insist on buying it if you need to ask my help every ten minutes?”

“Because… it’s fun but I keep getting stuck? And you’re, like, really good at it?” Beat. “Fine,” Emily went on, more haughtily now, “you’ve hit a puzzle-solving brick wall today. I get it.”

The man continued to glare back at her unhappily. “January 2nd,” he gave in reluctantly.

Emily was quiet as she put the solution into her game and then smiled. “Ay! That’s right!”

“Alright. Thank you, Lestrade. No, that’s it. Thank you. Okay.” John presumably hung up the phone then and rejoined the others in the living room, cutting between Emily and Sherlock’s line of vision of each other. “So Percy checks out,” John announced. “He had a suit fitting scheduled during the murder window. The Yard confirmed his attendance with security footage.”

“I thought it might,” Sherlock grumbled.

“So… what then? You think that the snake somehow wandered out from Percy’s flat, travelled twenty minutes, or ever long it would take a small snake, to Julia’s house, slipped inside of there, snuck under Julia’s covers and bit her and then turned back?”

Sherlock turned around to face his flatmate. “Of course not.”

“So then another snake must’ve bitten her? It was just a freak thing?”

“This was murder. I’m sure of it.”

John looked unconvinced. “Look, if Percy couldn’t have done it, and for obvious reasons the coral snake he rescued couldn’t have done it without help, I think we can rule out their involvement altogether.”

“No,” Sherlock threw back defiantly. “Nothing gets completely ruled out until we’ve considered all the possibilities against each other. It has to fit together somehow… It just… I don’t know how yet, but I will. Scottie, do you have anything to add on the matter?”

Scottie was seated just behind Sherlock at the dining room table with his laptop out. “Just that I’ve read entire through about ten different web pages on venomous snakes and the chances of getting bitten by one are extremely unlikely,” the boy shrugged without looking over. “So like, Julia must’ve broken a mirror and while tripping over a black cat through a ladder or something to have died from one. Apparently over 70% of poisonous snake bites are from rattlesnakes, which you don’t even have around here, and in North America not a single death has been reported from a coral snake bite since the 1960s, thanks to antivenom’s invention.”

“How long would it take to die from an untreated bite?” John asked.

Scottie leaned forward further and scrolled through the page he had currently been on. “I’m not… sure. None of these gave a definitive answer. Sounds like it could take several hours for symptoms to even show up, though. Slurred speech, double vision, muscular paralysis…”

“So then we can’t assume Julia was even bitten in her bed.”

“But how else could she have been bitten by a snake?” Sherlock wondered aloud, starting to sound angry now. “We already checked with every zoo in the vicinity and absolutely no snakes are missing, venomous or otherwise. I’ve contacted animal control twice since we had them pick up Percy’s coral snake and they assure me they’d know by now if there were another venomous snake loose in the city. Which brings us back to square one: if a snakebite, then how? If not a snakebite, then what, not to mention who!”

“I need a think tank,” the detective hissed. He stomped around John into the kitchen, where Emily was sitting at the far end and entirely engulfed in playing with her Nintendo DS. She didn’t look up until she realized Sherlock was already in front of the whiteboard she and Scottie had nailed to the wall beside the door to the landing from there. Without asking first, Sherlock pulled his shirt sleeve up around his fist and began wiping it across the board, clearing their tally marks from the Damsel in Distress Olympics.

“H-Hey!” Emily shouted, setting down her game and jumping to her feet. “Scottie! He’s erasing our scoreboard!”

“Wh--SERIOUSLY?!”

Ignoring their protests, Sherlock took up the dry erase marker and started jotting things down so tightly together that John, who was now hovering over the man’s shoulder trying to get a better look, could barely even make out what half of it said.

“Hey, listen, jackass!” Emily yelled. She tried to climb out of her chair in way too much of a hurry, in doing so managing to tangle up her own legs with those of the chair and table, and stumbled forward as soon as she was free from the furniture. “That was really important to Scottie and I and you can’t just--”

John promptly shushed her and held an arm out to the side, intending to keep her back. Scottie had come in now and looked every bit as unhappy about the situation from where he was standing in the doorframe. Starting to turn red, Emily ducked underneath John’s barrier. She popped up again between Sherlock and the board, entirely messing up what he had been in the middle of doing, and forcefully ripped the whiteboard off of the wall.

“Emily!” John snapped.

“No. Fuck you. He’s a dick and not allowed to use our board.” Tucking the object underneath an arm, Emily started to ram her way out again, but they stepped back and allowed her to pass further back into the kitchen where she’d been.

Scottie couldn’t decide if he even wanted to get involved or not. Going with the latter option, the boy puffed out his cheeks and held his breath awkwardly. In front of him Sherlock stormed off in the direction of his room, slamming the door shut behind himself as soon as he got there. John scrubbed his hands over his face and held them there for a couple seconds before letting his arms drop again.

“I AM LIVING WITH CHILDREN” the doctor let out loud enough for Sherlock to still hear him loud and clear.

Emily had nothing to add on the matter, and so she skirted around the opposite side of the kitchen table, scooping up her DS with her free hand on the way, and took the whiteboard with her in the other through the living room and down the stairs in the direction of 221C.

John followed her example and left the flat without explanation, leaving Scottie still standing there by himself quietly.

An hour or so passed before finally wandered back upstairs, whiteboard still with her. She saw Scottie had gone back to his computer in the 221B living room, but wanting to avoid a confrontation, she slipped into the kitchen through the other unlocked door and quietly walked down the hall to Sherlock’s room. Emily briefly considered knocking, but knowing that it would be unlocked anyway, she pushed open the door and invited herself inside.

The girl found Sherlock on his bed, back pressed up against the bedframe with his knees to his chest, and a book in his hands. He looked up as soon as she stepped in and carefully shut the bedroom door behind herself.

“Hey…” she started. Sherlock didn’t say anything back. “Look, I’m sorry I got mad back there,” she said sheepishly. Emily then set the whiteboard down in front of herself so that it was propped up against the side of Sherlock’s bed. “That was stupid. You were in the zone, or whatever, and--”

“I shouldn’t have erased your thing,” Sherlock finally said. “There was… probably a better place to do that. I don’t need the board, anyway. That would’ve just been a waste of time.”

Almost as if he’d thought she left the room already, Sherlock turned his attention back to his reading material and flipped a page.

“You don’t like dead ends,” Emily said softly. “I get it. Like, with that game I was playing… any time I got stumped, my first instinct was always to ask for help whenever I didn’t get the answer right away, or look it up online or something. But I think that… maybe if I backed off a bit and came back to it later with fresh eyes, then maybe they might make more sense than the first time around. Look, I’m probably explaining this really badly but… it’s okay if you can’t solve this case the day same you were assigned to it. We’ll find who killed Julia, just… don’t be in such a rush, okay? Mull it over a bit. Try a new angle. The killer isn’t going anywhere. Probably.”

She couldn’t actually tell if Sherlock was listening or not, because the detective hadn’t once let his eyes leave his book since Emily started her speech. The girl sighed and reached for the doorknob again when Sherlock stopped her, saying, “SSR.”

Emily looked back over her shoulder. “Sorry?”

“Sustained silent reading. If you want to stick around.”

Emily hesitated. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is… pick out a book before I change my mind.”

She stood for a moment longer before an awkward smile spread across her lips and Emily went over to Sherlock’s private stash of books in hopes of something fictional.

\---

Sherlock chilled out a lot about the case for the following two days. In fact, he proceeded to work it so quietly from inside the flat that the others were beginning to grow slightly concerned. Eventually he had Helen drop by in order to go over the details of her sister’s final days once more with the detective. This was the first time any of them but Sherlock had seen her, and the woman looked paler than any of them had anticipated.

Helen admitted that she, too, was starting to feel particularly tired and run down lately, but she assumed that this was a combination of grief and stress over Julia’s death and its unusual circumstances. Sherlock was reluctant to agree that she was probably correct about this, but as soon as Helen left the premises the man was quick to share his suspicions regarding Helen’s seemingly declining health.

“Helen may be suffering the same symptoms as her sister had leading up to Julia’s death,” Sherlock began. He had just seen Helen and come back to his armchair. Several feet away from him Scottie and Emily took up an equal portion of John’s. Evidently there had been a slight dispute over who got it during Helen’s interrogation and that was the best compromise they had. It was a tight space, however, and needless to say they looked ridiculous smooshed up against one another in it.

Scottie shifted so that his shoulder blade could come out in front of Emily’s which she didn’t seem to like very much but didn’t complain about. “Yeah, Helen did look hella pale,” Emily agreed instead. “Even more than Scottie, and that’s saying something.”

“I mean. I’m not gonna deny it,” the boy shrugged.

“But Helen claimed she had definitely not been bitten by a snake or anything of the sort herself,” the detective went on.

“Hm.”

John was seated at the dining room table with a laptop now; it was a prime location for browsing, considered how often all four of them rotated around it. The doctor’s phone went off from next to the computer and he answered it, saying, “Hello? Yes. Speaking. Yeah, he’s right…”

John pressed a fist lightly over his mouth to stop himself from talking.

“What is it?” Sherlock inquired, looking over.

John frowned. “God. I can’t believe I’m actually suggesting this, but… Scottie. Emily. Would you be interested if I referred this guy’s case over to… uh… Lewis and Claus Investigations?”

The teens perked up a considerable amount at this prospect, and in doing so Scottie slid forward in his seat. Noticing this, Emily lifted a knee and then used it to push him the rest of the way over the chair’s cushion. The boy slid down the front side of the armchair and hit the rug with a soft thump. But really he didn’t seem to care much at all about this repositioning.

“Would we ever!” the boy gasped.

“Hang on,” Sherlock interrupted, “why are you offering a case up to them? If it was meant for me I want to solve it.”

“You don’t know that it was necessarily meant for you. And why are you having an issue with this now?” Emily asked. “I thought you already said that Lewis and Claus Investigations wasn’t a threat!”

“Well if they’re calling John about it, obviously it was intended for me,” retorted the detective.

“You don’t know that, though.”

“Guys, chill out,” John warned. “I’m still on the line.”

“Excuse you. Bananas do not chill!” Scottie huffed indignantly.

John made a rather confused face at this. “No, yeah, sorry. Right. I’ll--” he kept saying into the phone.

“And I want to know why John didn’t think I should tackle it in the first place.” Sherlock scowled over in John’s direction like he was offended by his flatmate’s actions.

John held the device down a little and addressed Sherlock. “Well. I mean, look at you - you’re already in the middle of a case!” John tried to defend himself. “I just thought, you were busy, and Scottie and Emily could probably use an excuse to get out of the flat again, considering they’ve made no attempt to do so since Thursday…”

“What is it?” Sherlock got up and strode over to John and made a swipe for the cell phone, which John pulled back.

“Alright, calm down - impatient much? It sounds like a locked room mystery type of deal,” John started to say.

“I want to speak to the client,” insisted Sherlock.

John hesitated a moment before putting the phone into Sherlock’s expectant hand. “Sherlock Holmes,” the other man held it up and said into the receiver. “Tell me everything you just told my assistant.”

John made a face and looked over at the kids. “I tried,” he said quietly.

“Of course,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I’ll be there shortly.” When he hung up he dropped the phone back down on the dining room table without much care and started for the door.

“You’re taking the case?” asked John after him. “What about Julia?”

“Well, she won’t be any more dead the longer we take on that one.”

“Helen might be!” protested Scottie. He jumped to his feet and crossed the room over to Sherlock. “You said so yourself, she wasn’t looking good. If this is the same thing that happened with Julia--”

“I’m not asking your permission to take on a second case,” Sherlock growled suddenly, making Scottie jump a little.

“Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.” Scottie shook his head and pulled a coat down from where it had been hanging. “Either way, Emily and I are coming with.”

Emily leaned forward. “I am?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I… yeah, I guess. Alright.”

“What about you, then?” Sherlock asked.

John blinked. “Me?”

“Since everyone else seems to think every case is a class field trip.”

John glanced back and his laptop, which he shut and then got up and tucked in his chair. “That does often seem to be the situation,” he mumbled.

\---

Sherlock filled Scottie and Emily in on and reminded John of the details concerning the case as they exited their cab and went up to the front door of the building in front of them now.

“Tim Leng is a yoga teacher,” Sherlock was saying. “His flatmate, Scott Bevan, was the one who called to report Leng’s death.”

“And so his first thought was to call you instead of the police?” questioned Scottie.

“He did call the police, apparently, but we seem to have beaten them here. In any case. Bevan discovered Leng dead in his bath within the hour.”

“I hate when that happens,” Emily muttered.

“Leng had been in there for quite some time with candles out, which was not unusual for him.”

“I’m assuming the dying part was,” said Emily.

“...You know, this would be easier if you two didn’t keep interrupting me.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Yeah, shame on you, Emily,” Scottie scoffed. They had just reached the building’s stoop and Sherlock rapped on the front door. “This is a no joke zone. All fun must remain behind the yellow line.”

There was a click from a lock turning and then the door swung open to reveal a man that was probably around Sherlock’s age and wearing sweats and a tank top. “Oh, you must be Mr. Holmes,” the man realized and stuck out a hand. “We spoke on the phone. I’m--”

Sherlock didn’t wait for him to finish his greeting before inviting himself inside and making a beeline down the hallway. “Is your loo this way?”

“What? Yeah, um… Oh, is everyone coming in?” Bevan blinked in surprise as John, Scottie, and Emily nodded their hellos to him and stepped inside after Sherlock. “You brought the kids too? Are you sure that’s such a good idea? Tim’s still not--”

Somehow Emily had gotten ahead of Scottie and John and caught up to Sherlock just as he located the bathroom and paused to look down in front of the shut door and pressed his shoe down on the carpet there. “It’s damp under the door,” he told no one in particular just before opening the door and stepping inside.

Emily let out a squeak and immediately turned her back to what lay ahead. She didn’t know what else she was expecting, but for some reason the thought didn’t occur to Emily that it would be a thirty-something asian man entirely nude in the tub and surrounded by half-deflated wads of bubbles. On the rim of the tub where it attached to the wall were a bunch of little candles lined up and unlit.

“...decent,” Bevan finished awkwardly.

Emily took a deep breath and turned around again and stepped inside. “Oh, lovely,” John breathed. “Emily. Stop looking.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

Sherlock crossed them on his way out already and he turned a corner and continued along the short stretch of hallway left that led to an open balcony, which the detective stepped out on. Scottie peered into the bathroom, saw what that was all about, and then backtracked into the hall.

“Are you taking a picture of it!” Emily choked. She elbowed John, who had taken out his phone and was pointing it angled towards the dead man’s feet. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”

John glanced back at her. “For the blog - don’t you think?”

“No?!”

Sherlock was back again and now standing in the hallway at the opened door frame and at the center of the group. "Rapid fire theories!" Sherlock suddenly let out, looking from Scottie to Emily and John.

Scottie's face immediate lit up at this. "Oh I love these!" the boy breathed.

"No I suck at these!" Emily whined at about the same time.

The consulting detective thrust an arm out and pointed at Scottie dramatically. "Scottie, 123 go!" he called out.

"Shit! Uh uh uh OKAY, um, maybe… the water gradually heated up way too much and then boiled him to death! I think something like that happened in a Supernatural, I don't know." Scottie met Sherlock's eyes and chewed at his lower lip hopefully.

"Wrong!" Sherlock shot his theory down rather finally. He rotated his stance ever so slightly and once more thrust out an index finger. "Emily go!"

"WAIT NO!" Scottie interrupted frantically. "There was poison in his soap bubbles that had slowly been killing him over time!"

Sherlock paused to consider this possibility. "Still wrong," he decided. "Emily go!"

"ALIENS" turned out the be the only contribute Emily had to put on the table. She was probably kidding, but she said this with such conviction that you had to wonder.

"...No, but bonus points for creativity," Sherlock replied slowly.

Emily shrugged. "I’ll take ‘em."

Sherlock repeated his pattern of dramatic pointing: "John go!"

The doctor crossed his arms. "I’m not playing," the man huffed. "Have you solved it or not?"

"Goodness, John, I wasn’t aware that you had graduated from Killjoy University."

"Went back and got a master’s, actually."

"It shows. And since you asked, I have solved it, actually. Solved it almost as soon as I’d strolling into the room." The detective turned to address Bevan now, who, up to this point, had been standing quietly just outside the bathroom with a shoulder pressed up against the door frame.

"Your flatmate likes long baths," Sherlock began quickly, hardly pausing to take any breaths. "As does mine. So he goes and has a bath and lights all his candles. It’s a small bathroom with no ventilation." As he spoke, crouched down and felt along the carpet just in front of himself and then the tiles that began at the other side of the frame. "Wet towels are taped around the door frame from the outside - there’s a tiny bit of tape still here." Sherlock got up again and circled around into the bathroom again. He tapped a finger over the door frame, on the right side and about three quarters of the up. He pointed towards the bathtub. "The flames from the candles use up all the air and he slowly suffocates. Just like falling asleep."

Sherlock met Bevan's eyes again and continued. "The wet towels are removed and the murderer contacts my assistants because he thinks he’s cleverer than me and wants to show off a bit. Which I can understand. I like showing off. Who doesn’t?"

The room fell silent as soon as Sherlock had finished his piece. He must've been right, because Bevan proceeded to stare back at him, mouth slightly ajar, but the man made no attempt to deny this accusation.

"Good God," John breathed.

Scottie nodded slowly. "See, that was my second guess," he claimed.

"No it wasn’t. Thirty six seconds, if anyone was interested."

"What?" John blinked.

"Thirty six seconds," Sherlock repeated. "That’s how long it took me to solve the case."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Don't look so cocky; you’ve been stuck on that Julia one for days now."

Sherlock promptly shushed her. They could hear sirens outside now. Bevan lifted his head worriedly. “Took their time, I see,” Sherlock said, noticing. “I suppose we ought to go and fill them in. After you, Bevan.”

\---

Feeling noticeably better after having another win, Sherlock decided that evening to try a new approach at the Julia case. The man seemed to think it might be helpful to attempt to relive Julia’s last night, from when she came home and spoke with Helen to when she went to bed and somehow was poisoned and died. Emily took the liberty of excitedly packing a change of clothes and toiletries for every as soon as John called and confirmed that this was alright with Helen.

“Man, I’m so pumped for this sleepover!” the girl squealed as they descended the staircase out their way out of the flat. “We can stay up late telling ghost stories and gossiping about boys and doing each other’s nails--”

“You’re leading me to believe you entirely missed the purpose of this excursion,” Sherlock commented.

Emily shrugged indifferently. “Yeah yeah, reliving Julia’s last moments, solving a murder, yadda yadda, but MORE IMPORTANTLY it’ll be a fun bonding experience! Oh, and dibs on the bed!”

“I suppose you and Scottie could share it?” John said.

“Deal.”

“Absolutely not,” countered Scottie.

“Actually I’ll be taking the bed,” Sherlock informed them, “as I said I want to relive Julia’s last moments exactly as she had.”

John made a face. “Okay, but again, I don’t see how that’s going to help you narrow down her cause of death…?”

“I don’t need you to see. I need you to see me doing it.”

“...So you DO need me to see, then.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, and so after a moment Emily said “Okay fine, Sherlock and I can share the bed!”

The detective was quick to disagree. “No. If you’re that against the idea of sleeping on the floor, the couch is still an option.”

“Casually reminder that Julia died in that bed and I’m not so sure it’s been washed since then,” Scottie added.

Emily pouted. “Oh. Ew.”

It was already late by the then. It had been dark outside for several by the time the group arrived at Doctor Roylott and Helen’s. Helen had her voice lowered when she let them in, explaining that her father had already gone to bed.

“I hope this is alright,” John said. “We don’t mean to be any inconvenience.”

“Not at all,” Helen assured him. “Honestly, whatever you think will help resolve my sister’s… yeah. Oh, but uh, you must be cold standing out there. Please, come in.” Sherlock, John, Scottie and Emily stepped into the living room at Helen’s invitation. “Are you all going to be staying in Julia’s room? Would you like to put your stuff down?”

“Not just yet,” Sherlock decided for the group. “As I’m sure John said over the phone, I want you to take me through everything Julia did from the second she stepped in the door, starting now.”

“Oh. Alright. Um… Well, as I’ve already told you several times now, Julia was out with some mates, but I spoke with her as soon as she got back and I assure you she hadn’t gotten too drunk. Came back earlier than usual, actually. She was just outright exhausted. Can't blame her, what with all the nonstop wedding planning.”

“And where were you two when you spoke?”

Helen glanced around the room. “I think I came down the stairs and met Julia at the door. Around where you’re standing now.”

“And after you two spoke, what was the first thing she did?”

“Um, I believe she went to have a bath.”

“You believe?”

Helen shrugged slightly. “I mean. She said she was going to. I went back upstairs, but I remember hearing the water come on before I got to my own room. Here, I’ll show you.”

The woman ushered them further into the house and in the direction of the bathroom. “I’m sensing a pattern here,” Scottie said softly.

“In here.” Helen propped open the door for Sherlock to step inside.

But Sherlock didn’t go inside. Rather, the detective stared forward and let out a soft “oh”.

“What is it?” John pressed.

“Where did Julia keep her bubble baths?” Sherlock asked distractedly.

“In her room, I believe.”

Sherlock slipped off into Julia’s bedroom without waiting for the others to catch up. He almost immediately located a clump of bottles on the deceased woman’s bedside table - soaps, shampoos, lotions, and the like. Sherlock dug through them, turning them so that their labels faced him, until he pulled out one pink bottle in particular and quietly read the Roylotts brand name aloud. The detective then took this with him back to the rest of his party, who were only just starting to come and find him.

“Your father’s company made this?” Sherlock asked, holding out the bottle for Helen to see as he came closer toward them.

The woman took a minute to recognize the product. She then nodded. “Yeah, that one’s new.”

“And do you use the same?”

“Yes. Only recently, though. He gave it to Julia to try out a week or so ago, and was able to procure another bottle for me the other day. See, it’s not available on the market yet. He wanted us to try it out for him.”

Sherlock turned the bottle in his hands distractedly. “Scottie,” he said after a moment.

“Yes?” the boy replied.

“There’s a chance that you may have inadvertently solved this case.”

“I... did…?”

“Do you mind if we hold onto this?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure, I suppose,” Helen shrugged.

“Change of plans,” Sherlock muttered and began back towards the front door with the bubble bath. “Might not be staying the night. John, would you and the kids mind sticking around here until I get back?”

Scottie scurried after the detective curiously. “Wait, what do you mean I may’ve solved the case?” he asked eagerly.

Sherlock stopped in front of the exit and turned to face the boy. “In the case with the late Tim Leng in the bath, you suggested a theory concerning poisonous bubble bath. While this wasn’t the case with Leng…”

“No… Seriously?” John breathed.

“It does make you wonder. Julia began using a new bath product, not yet available in the shops, and suddenly began feeling drastically worn out and then died. Helen was then given the same product a few days later, and now she is beginning to show similar symptoms.”

Emily wrinkled her nose. “Shit, that actually does make an alarming amount of sense.”

“Should I tell told Helen not to use hers, then?”

“I can run bottle this over to St. Bart’s and have it tested in no time at all,” Sherlock explained without actually answering John’s question. “If I am right about this, we should have enough time to break the news to Helen before it has any lasting effects on her. But just in case, keep an eye on her.”

John nodded in agreement and Sherlock took his leave.

“Does he think he found something?” Helen asked from behind them. “In the bubble bath?”

John shrugged. “Seems to think so, anyway. He’s going to quickly check that theory and then come back here, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course. If we’re not going to be sleeping right away, then, does anyone else want some caffeine?”

The other three collectively agreed that they wouldn’t mind some, and so Helen turned on the stove under a kettle and dug out a box of assorted teas, which she went around and had each of her guests pick out one of. As she went to pull down mugs, Scottie, Emily, and John went off in different directions to change into their pajamas, just in case and because it was the general consensus that they were much more comfortable than their day clothes.

Emily was the first to come back in wearing a tiny gray nightgown. She threw herself down on a leather couch at the center of the living room and pulled a Stitch pillow pet that she’d brought out of her bag. She hugged onto this when Helen came up next to her and set down a coaster and cup of hot tea on the coffee table in front of Emily.

“Thanks,” she smiled.

Next was Scottie, now in khaki shorts and an oversized shirt. The boy came up behind the couch and literally rolled over the top of it and plopped next to Emily.

“Those aren’t what you wore last night,” Scottie commented in regards to Emily’s night gown.

“Nope.”

“Just how many sets of nightwear do you own?!”

“So many. I am hip to all things.”

Not long after John and Helen had put on their own pajamas and rejoined the kids in the square formation the leather couches made around a large flat screen TV. “Well, I don’t know how long Mr. Holmes is going to be out, but we’ve got Netflix, if you want to at least start something?” Helen reached forward and pulled forth one of four different remote controls sitting in a little box on the coffee table.

“Yeah,” John shrugged. “What are you guys feeling?”

It took some time before they were able to agree on a movie as a team. Everyone seemed to have an entirely different genre or choice, but after nearly fifteen whole minutes of weighing their options and scrolling through various Netflix menus they decided on Clue. They didn’t get much more than twenty minutes into that, however, before there was a loud knock at the door. Helen paused the film and got up to answer it.

As she had expected, it was Sherlock coming back. And he had Inspector Lestrade and two other police officers with him.

Helen blinked in surprise. “Oh, um--”

“I had the bottle you gave me analyzed,” Sherlock informed Helen, looking probably more proud of himself than he should’ve, “and found that it contains a slow-acting poison, which would explain why Julia was feeling gradually more and more weak. Each time she used it - each time both of you used it, in fact - you’ve slowly been killing yourselves.”

Helen looked at a loss for words. “But… Father said he had it tested! It was safe!”

“Of course he did. Your sister was murdered. More specifically by you Daddy Dearest. And he made an attempt on your life as well.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned softly.

“But the snake bite--”

“Faked. Roylott knew that Percy kept snakes and wanted to throw us off course. Unfortunately it worked. Now where is the good Doctor Roylott? Already in bed, you said?”

“Are you arresting my father?!” Helen choked in disbelief.

“Me? Of course not. But that’s why I’ve invited along my friend.” Sherlock gestured from Lestrade to Helen. “Detective Inspector, Helen Roylott. Helen, Detective Inspector.” Lestrade smiled weakly and gave the woman an awkward wave from just behind Sherlock. “Now that we’re all familiarized, please go and do what you must.”

“Right.”

After his invitation, Sherlock stepped inside and out of the way so that Lestrade and the other two officers could pile into the place. “Really it’s the only thing he should be qualified to do,” Sherlock told Helen nonchalantly. “He’s atrocious when it comes to actually solving the cases.”

Helen remained quiet. She was seemingly in shock and attempting to slowly process this new information.

“Oh, what are we watching?” Sherlock asked, looking over and noticing the paused movie.

“A completely ridiculous murder mystery,” Scottie told him.

“So. A documentary of sorts?”

“Not… exactly. At all. I don’t know if you’d like it.”

John had gotten up from the couch and went over to Helen worriedly. “Oh, God, Helen… Are you alright?” The man tried to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked like she were holding it together, but only just. But as soon as the police returned to the top of the stair’s landing with an elderly man Helen lost whatever composure she was managing to hold onto. No one else made any attempt to help, so John just hugged onto the sobbing woman tightly and shielded her gaze as Lestrade followed the arrested Doctor Roylott downstairs.

\---

“Never have I ever… been to the U.S.”

Sherlock, Scottie, and Emily all put a finger down at this. It was the same night, but the group was still too wound of from the evening’s events to go to bed just yet. Now they sat around in a circle in the middle of their own living room.

It was Emily’s turn now. “Alright, never have I ever owned... a dog.”

Sherlock and Scottie put a finger down.

“Wait, seriously?” Scottie asked, noticing.

“Yes.”

Scottie blinked. He kind of wanted to ask, but Sherlock didn’t seem to have any interest in elaborating. “Huh. Okay, never have I ever… been… shot?”

“Well I’m out,” John announced and put down his hands.

“This is a lot different than how I remembered playing the game at summer camp…” Emily mumbled.

“But it has been a good bonding experience,” shrugged John. “For instance, after - what, a year? - I knew almost nothing about the three of you before we moved in together. I still don’t know almost anything about Sherlock, but now I can say with confidence that Emily has helped build houses in Mexico, Scottie used to own dogs, a cat, a dwarf hamster, and a gecko, and one time on a date Emily’s trousers split down the seam.”

“I regret sharing that story with you.”

“All important back burner things for a pop quiz, I’m sure,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

Scottie looked across the circle at the others. “So round two, or…?”

But instead Sherlock got up and dusted himself off. “Pass. It’s beyond late, we just solved two cases in one day, and tomorrow afternoon I’m meeting with the dean of… something.”

“UCL dean of students,” John informed him.

“Sure.”

Scottie looked to John now. “John?”

“Sorry,” the doctor shook his head, “but I think he’s got the right idea. And I still have work tomorrow, technically.”

“...Fine,” grumbled Scottie defeatedly.

“Well. Goodnight.” Sherlock dismissed himself with the wave of a hand and disappeared around the corner.

“Night, nerd.”

John stood and stretched his arms out over his head with a loud yawn. Scottie and Emily took their pillow pets with them (Scottie’s was a bee) and to the landing, where they said goodnight to John as well. The man went upstairs and Scottie and Emily went down.


	4. The Aluminium Derp

John glanced down at his watch. It was seven past six. Still too early to jump to the conclusion that he’d been stood up. The doctor pulled his sleeve back down and looked up at the waiter who had come refill his water glass. John smiled sheepishly.

And then he spotted her. Felicia Dannenbaum, the coffee shop barista he’d been unintentionally flirting with for more than a week now before finally deciding to go the extra mile and ask her out.

Or… No, that wasn’t quite true, was it? Felicia had written her number on his coffee cup first. And then John called her up and asked her out on a proper date. Technicalities.

Regardless, that brought him to this moment. The start of their first date. They were at a little French restaurant. Not super fancy, but John had a glance at the menu already and considering the price range, it might as well have been. Felicia came inside and immediately took off her coat to reveal she was wearing a white blouse tucked into a tight, knee-length black skirt; the first thing John had seen her in beside her barista uniform.

She said something to the host (probably that she was meeting someone), and John waved an arm to get her attention. Smiling upon spotting him, Felicia strode over to the rounded booth the man had claimed and slid in opposite him.

“You made it,” John began.

Felicia made a guilty sort of face. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that, a girlfriend dropped me off after work, and she was running late to pick me up.”

“It’s fine. You just got off?”

“Sort of,” Felicia nodded. “Busy day. Not bad for having picked out an outfit this morning and stashed it behind the counter all day, huh?”

“No. No, not bad at all,” laughed John. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

Felicia smirked. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

“Well, I suppose you don’t look so bad yourself.”

John smiled back. God, this was awkward. Was it? Did she think it was awkward? He sure hoped she didn’t find it awkward. Should she? John cleared his throat and looked down at his menu. “Ah, they have some really… fancy sounding pasta dishes here,” he commented.

“Yes,” Felicia said, glancing down at her own menu. “Perhaps we should start with something to drink, though?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Right. Of course. Naturally.”

Felicia snorted.

“What?”

“God, this isn’t your first time, is it?” she asked.

John blinked back at her from across the table. “Of course not.”

“Then stop acting like it,” Felicia mused. “You’re all… I don’t know, nervous. It’s putting me off.”

“Sorry,” John swallowed. “It’s, um. It’s just been a while. This first date thing, I mean. That’s all. I’ll get back into the groove of it soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Planning on going on a lot more first dates soon?” Felicia asked. “So this is, what, a practice run?”

John stared back at her blankly.

“Kidding. Hopefully.”

John forced a smile as Felicia flagged down a waiter coming by and ordered drinks for the both of them. Their drinks came quickly enough and the conversation was slow at first as they fished around for topics that didn’t seem too personal but also weren’t horrifically boring stereotypical small talk. Still many of them veered toward the latter of the two.

“So. Uh. Kids?”

“They’re alright,” the woman shrugged.

“I mean do you have any,” John clarified.

Felicia sipped at her glass and then smacked her lips together. “Yes and no.” John nodded   
understandably. “I’ve got custody over two nephews,” she explained. “Since my sister passed nearly six months ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” John gasped.

Felicia met his eyes, her face dead serious for all of two seconds before she choked on laughter. John looked understandably concerned by this. “Sorry, I just” - Felicia made to wipe away a tear where there was none - “I was joking. My sister isn’t dead, she’s just in prison. Held up a drug store.”

“That’s… really not that much better.”

The woman shifted in her seat, trying to compose herself again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That wasn’t appropriate. She… Yeah. That was bad. But her boys are wonderful. Eight and eleven. Fight a lot, drive me up the wall sometimes, but you know. Kids will be kids.” Felicia took another drink from her glass. “And what about you? Are you a daddy?”

John smiled awkwardly. “No. But not unlike you, there are two kids in my life. Surprisingly.”

“What relation?” Felicia asked with interest that seemed genuine enough.

“None whatsoever.”

“Adopted?”

“Not… as such.”

Felicia looked confused now.

“My neighbors,” John finally explained. “Both… sixteen, I think? It’s kind of an unusual situation. They’re over… pretty much all of the time. Drive my flatmate and I up the wall most days, but for the life of us we can’t seem to keep them away.”

“They’ll do that,” Felicia agreed.

There was a buzz from John’s trouser pocket. He hesitated, momentarily debating if he ought to answer the phone or not, before taking out the device and glancing down at the incoming text message in his lap. “Speaking of,” he said.

It was from Emily, and simply said:

Please come pick me up

John turned his phone over in his lap. “She wants me to pick her up,” he said.

“Is she in trouble?” Felicia asked, sounding worried.

What’s wrong? John texted Emily back.

After a moment the cell phone buzzed again:

Dying

John sighed, looked away, and then replied with: Of…?

Boredom came the girl’s response almost immediately, and followed by an entire block of distressed emojis and then some miscellaneous animals, symbols, and automobiles when she had apparently run out of those.

The doctor pursed his lips together and turned his phone over in his lap. “She’s fine,” he told Felicia.

\---

“Oh, could I take this for you?”

“Oh, I’d be much obliged. Thank you.”

“We’ll be in compartment E.”

“Yes.”

“I thought it better to engage Mr. Paget after what happened in London. No doubt you’re an efficient person but I don’t think there’s any need for a policeman.”

“Policeman?”

“How long have you been in possession of the Star of Rhodesia, Lady Margaret?”

“Twenty-five years. You know, it may seem strange to you, but I’ve never actually seen it. I suppose there’s no harm since we’re paying you to guard it.”

Emily was dying.

Not in the literal sense. Rather, in the sense that they weren’t even half an hour into this Charing Cross Theatre performance and she was already so bored out of skull that she had half a mind to get up taxi back to Baker Street alone. But on the other hand, she was in a VIP seat, and that would probably be considered rude and not go unnoticed.

The play was Terror by Night, and the only reason she and Scottie were in attendance was because apparently it was a fairly new play and its lead, Detective Sidney Paget, was based heavily upon Sherlock. Evidently, the writer was a fan of John’s blog (as was half of London by this point - seriously, the press constantly swarming around the family was getting to be a nuisance).

Scottie, on the other hand, was very much taken with the play. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone to one of these things, and he expected to hate it because of how crowded the little theater was. But Terror by Night, although not particularly exciting thus far, pleasantly surprised him. And he had to admit that there was something very ironic about it being based off of real life BBC’s Sherlock but set in the world of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.

Emily had taken to texting John every few minutes. The phone’s screen was bright amid the dimmed theater, and her behavior seemed to be greatly annoying just about every other audience member in the vicinity.

Sherlock, who was sitting to her right, had noticed this some time ago but waited to see if she would stop on her own. When she didn’t, the detective finally reached over and plucked the pink phone out of her hands and tucked it away in his own coat pocket. Emily gasped and made a grab at it, but Sherlock blocked her attempt by crossing his legs in such a way that the pocket slid further out of Emily’s reach.

From Sherlock’s other side, Scottie looked over at the shuffling around in their seats, but quickly disregarded it and focused back in on the play.

“We will be as unobtrusive as possible.”

“That will be a novelty from a policeman.”

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling us where our compartment is?”

Emily slouched back in her chair and stared forward unhappily for another minute or less. She then sat upright and pulled her program out from where she’d been sitting on it up until this point. The girl then attempted to entertain herself by folding parts of it back and forth until they were easily ripped. She cut out a small near-perfect square from the thicker front cover of the program and began folding that in her lap.

Sherlock glanced sidelong over at what she was doing. After a moment he decided that he didn’t really care and proceeded to ignore it.

“The inspector’s going to Scotland to fish for salmon. The season doesn’t start for another month, but you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

“Who says I’m going to fish for salmon?”

“Who?”

At this point Emily had managed to fold her square from the program into a cootie catcher, which she innocently opened and closed between her fingers as if it were a puppet.

“Him.”

“Excuse me, please.”

“Police.”

“Police? Here? On the train?”

“Scotland Yard, I heard.”

Sherlock’s attention was pulled away from the stage yet again when he felt the cootie catcher pinch at his left earlobe. Without any hesitation the man snatched up the paper toy, crinkled it into a tight ball right in front of Emily, and then tossed it to the floor in front of himself.

\---

“It was Albert, obviously,” Sherlock shrugged and sipped at his wine glass.

Emily took a sip from her own and made a face.

“Obviously?” echoed Scottie. “How was it obvious? How was it obvious that he killed his own mother?”

The play was at its intermission now and the group had migrated over to the lobby, where free drinks were being handed out in celebration of opening night. It wasn’t a great theater. Charing Cross had about the occupancy of a standard high school auditorium, and the seats and lighting were about of that quality as well. The arched doorways and brick walls gave the lobby a bit of a train station feel, and this space was shared with a line of stores and restaurants on the opposite wall of the tunnel. They were literally standing in a dimly lit tunnel. At the end of it were stairs leading right up to the Strand’s sidewalk.

Still, Charing Cross was doing all in its power to attempt to paint the occasion as an elegant one. Not a black tie event in the least, but generally people were dressed up. Sherlock, of course, saw no reason to conform, but Emily had on a dress despite the cold and time of night and Scottie was at least wearing black and, for perhaps the first time since they’d all known each other, bothered to comb his hair.

Sherlock scoffed. “How was it obvious. The fact that they even tried to play it off as a mystery is a joke! It was all there, from the very first scene. You see--”

“Ah, spoilers!” Emily hissed.

Scottie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you’re interested in the play?”

“Just because I’d only been half watching through most of that act doesn’t mean I want to have the rest ruined for me.”

Sherlock glanced down at Scottie. “Do you not believe me that Albert killed Lady Margaret Chaplette, or?”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” Emily rolled her eyes.

“Well I do now,” huffed Scottie. “But until you claimed otherwise I could’ve sworn it was Jade!”

Sherlock had just taken another sip from his glass and very nearly choked on it at this remote. “The maid? Seriously?” he taunted. “What did she have to do with anything?”

“Oh, shut up!”

“Guys, it’s just a play,” Emily retorted. “Let’s not get all worked up about it. Unless you want a repeat of what happened with Cluedo last week.”

“The victim did it and I will stand by that answer,” the detective shrugged.

“No, he didn’t!” Scottie laughed, although there was a hint of annoyance in his voice. “That’s not how the game works at all. There isn’t a Mr. Body card, and therefore it’s literally impossible for him to have committed suicide! Didn’t you read the rules?”

Emily frowned. “You know, I didn’t bring that up so we could get into this again…”

“I did, and the rules were wrong,” insisted Sherlock.

“Wh… No! I will FIGHT you on this one!”

“Fight me? You can’t even reach me.”

Scottie furrowed his brows. “Come down here and we’ll see about that!”

The light in front of the theater entrance dimmed further still and then returned to its full brightness three times, indicating that it was time for people to head back to their seats inside.

“Oh, beautiful timing,” Emily breathed.

Without comment Sherlock downed the last of his wine and handed the glass off to someone who was not, in fact, an employee of Charing Cross.

\---

Scottie leaned forward in his seat eagerly. The play’s protagonist, Detective Sidney Paget, had just called the rest of the characters together to reveal whodunnit. Sherlock remained convinced that it was Albert, and Scottie realized that this was probably the case now, but still there was a part of him that was hoping it was someone else. If not to prove Sherlock wrong, then just to see him get all pissed off about the whole thing.

Both of the boys, whether they would admit it or not, were still a tad sore about that Cluedo game.

“Albert Caplette!” Sidney let out. “It was you who killed Lady Margaret.”

There was a gasp from the other characters onstage as well as a fair number of audience members. Sherlock smirked knowingly at Scottie, who did his best to ignore the man’s silent boasting as soon as he realized it was happening.

“I’m sorry?” Albert asked weakly.

“There’s no sense in denying it, Albert,” Sidney went on. “You said you had no interest in the Star of Rhodesia. And perhaps you didn’t. Not at first, anyway. But that was before you learned its true value. The lengths at which your mother was willing to go through to protect it. And after everything you’d done for her, you started to think to yourself, what right did Lady Margaret have to such a precious jewel? Why shouldn’t it go to you, who slaved away for most of your life attempting to support your family, not knowing that she possessed an item worth so much the entire time and did nothing with it?”

Albert shook his head profusely. “Good heavens, gentlemen, you are at perfect liberty to search my compartment or to search me! And if you find the diamond, I--”

“No, that won’t be necessary. The Star of Rhodesia has not been stolen.”

“What’s that, Mr. Paget?” another man blinked in surprise.

“An imitation was stolen. I have the real one.”

“YOU’VE got it?”

“My dear Carstairs,” Sidney smiled, “surely you didn’t think I would allow Lady Margaret to retain the genuine diamond. When I felt reasonably certain an attempt would be made to steal it, I have had it in my possession almost from the moment I boarded the train.”

“Confound it, Mr. Paget, you had no right to do that!” huffed the man apparently called Carstairs. “This is a police matter. Come on, let me have it!”

“My job was to see that it wasn’t stolen. It wasn’t.”

“I told you that I didn’t steal the Star of Rhodesia!” Albert insisted.

“Perhaps not, but still, you made an attempt to nonetheless. And unfortunately for you, that means that your mother, Lady Margaret Chaplette, was killed for naught.”

“How dare you accuse a man of killing his own mother!” hissed Albert. “You yourself admitted to possessing the Star of Rhodesia - how do we know you weren’t the one who killed Lady Margaret! You’re trying to frame me!”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Chaplette, there’s no sense in throwing a fit,” Sidney sighed. “The evidence of your crime is all there. I recovered the fake diamond. In your luggage.”

“This is an outrage! You killed my mother and now you’re trying to pin it on me! Pretending to guard the Star of Rhodesia for Lady Margaret was merely a ruse to take it for yourself! I won’t let him get away with it! I won’t!” Albert’s voice had been steadily rising until he was shouting his lines, at which point all the other characters in the scene were trying to calm him and usher him back to his seat. Albert, who had hurt his ankle earlier in the play and was using a crutch to walk, swung the metal thing out to his side and then brought it down forcefully over Sidney’s head.

It wasn’t unlike a cartoon in the way that a loud, unrealistic sound effect went off at this moment. But the way in which Sidney fell to the stage floor was rather impressive. The other actors fell silent. More silent for longer than felt necessary. This was because an injury from the crutch had appeared on Sidney’s temple, oozing blood rather quickly as the actor stared up at the ceiling with blank eyes. The blood was probably only visible from the first two rows or so, so most of the audience was understandably confused.

Emily held her breath for a moment before leaning over to Sherlock and whispering, “That was supposed to happen… right?”

Sherlock got up from his chair in place of answering her question and started to squeeze past people’s legs across the row of seats. The previous quiet had been replaced now with anxious whispers throughout the theater. Those standing onstage watched as Sherlock came up the short stairwell toward them but made no move to stop the real detective from doing so.

“Oh my God,” Scottie breathed. “Oh my God.”

Emily scooted over into Sherlock’s now vacant seat. “What is it?” she whispered to her friend. “Is he dead? Is that what’s going on? Did we just see someone DIE?”

Scottie shushed Emily and pushed her face away from his.

Now Sherlock was kneeling beside the man who played Detective Sidney Paget, who hadn’t budged an inch from where he’d hit the ground. The other actors had apparently turned off their microphones, because when Sherlock looked up at them and probably asked something, the things they said back to him weren’t picked up by the audience.

A few people were standing now, hoping to get a better look at the scene but not daring to really get any closer to it. Finally a woman came out and announced to the crowd that due to “technical difficulties,” the theater would have to be cleared out and closed temporarily.

Nobody was panicking in a super disruptive way, so that was good. As soon as this announcement had been made the volume doubled while people crowded the theater’s aisles and ever so slowly filed out. They sounded concerned for the actor’s well-being, of course, but no one was yet admitting that they thought the he had just been murdered onstage in front of all of them. One old lady was insisting that the incident had something to do with the “curse” and “the actors ought to have known better than to test it.”

Scottie and Emily were the last two in their seats and waited until the theater was nearly emptied out before they had enough space to make their way to the stage. Sherlock, standing now, saw them coming toward him and attempted to cut the teens off at the top of the stairs.

“I need you to wait out in the lobby,” the man said.

“Is he dead?” Scottie asked.

“Lobby,” Sherlock repeated.

“He IS dead, isn’t he?”

“LOBBY.”

Emily had already turned around and was halfway down to the first level when Scottie reached and grabbed her upper arm, stopping her. He jerked the girl along with him and past Sherlock onstage. Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh but didn’t put in near enough effort to prevent this behavior. Scottie pulled Emily up beside the body, and Emily made a whining noise in the back of her throat and tried to force herself to avoid looking directly at it.

“Yes, he is dead,” Sherlock said, coming up from behind them. “I’m sure you all saw how it happened.”

A woman who was not in period clothing but the kids recognized as the one who introduced the show was onstage along with the actors. “Mr. Holmes, are these kids with you?” she asked the detective. “Don’t you think they should wait outside while the adults deal with this?”

“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” Sherlock replied. “But that is a feat easier said than done.”

“Hello,” Scottie said with a half wave and his voice flat, “my name is Obi Wan Kenobi and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi Obi Wan,” Emily said much, much deeper than her usual tone of voice.

Sherlock was about to say something harsh in regards to this exchange, probably, when he was interrupted by the man playing Albert, who stammered, “I-I don’t understand!” He was still holding the murder weapon out in front of himself, trembling slightly. “We’d done this scene hundreds of times in rehearsals! I… I was supposed to hit the padding under his coat, I know, I know, but… but still, it’s not easy to do, and I’ve missed before and… and even then Matthew said it didn’t hurt at all!”

“He had marks on his arms from where you’ve missed in the past, I highly doubt it never hurt him.”

“But it was rubber! It couldn’t… I mean, it shouldn’t have--”

Sherlock yanked the crutch from the actor’s hand and inspected it. “Aluminium,” he said, tapping at the metal with his nail. “Real aluminium. Not rubber. No way this could’ve been the same crutch you were using in rehearsal.”

“Aluminium,” Emily said slowly. “Ah-loo-MIN-ium…”

“Stop that,” Scottie said flatly.

“Not the same crutch?” echoed the actor. “There’s only ever been one crutch, I… How could this happen? Oh my God, I… I killed him, I… I don’t understand… I KILLED him!” The man was breathing sporadically now. He started to sink, looking like he was attempting to have a seat but had possibly forgotten how, and was reaching out for something to cling on to. The woman who had played Lady Margaret was back onstage now and she put her arms around the man playing Albert and kept him in place.

Emily went to pull out her phone and start texting John again, but quickly remembered that she no longer had it. She scooted closer to Sherlock and retrieved the device from the man’s pocket. He noticed, obviously, but didn’t acknowledge it.

“Albert,” Sherlock said, “where did you keep the prop crutch?”

“Wh… My name’s William,” the actor playing Albert said weakly.

“Nope, your name is Albert now,” Scottie said. “Sorry but I don’t make the rules.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to give a shit what the man was called. “Please answer the question,” he instructed.

“Oh. Um. I kept it in my dressing room,” William said.

“So then whoever swapped out the rubber aluminium crutch with the real aluminium one must have had access to your dressing room at the interval.”

“You think someone switched them out?” William asked. “That… That someone did this? On purpose?”

“Well, that’s assuming the crutch didn’t change from rubber to aluminium of its own accord,” Sherlock shot back in annoyance. “Yes, obviously someone swapped them out!”

“Okay, okay, don’t yell,” whimpered William.

“How do you know it happened at the intermission?” Emily inquired.

“Who had access to your dressing room at the interval?” Sherlock questioned William, talking over the tail end of Emily’s question.

William seemed able to stand apart from Lady Margaret’s actress now, but she looked ready to catch him again at any given moment. William scratched at his head. “Um… I, uh… Deborah, and, uh… Sarah, I think, Jonathan, and… Karen. Yes. Oh, also Matthew, but he’s. Well. Anyway, they all had access to my dressing room. But. You don’t think that… one of them? They wouldn’t!”

“I regret to admit that I did not read through the playbill,” Sherlock said. “Would you mind going through that list again and explaining who’s who?”

“Oh, oh, of course. Um. Deborah, she’s--”

“Deborah Challis, the director. Yes. Go on.”

“Right. Sarah, Sarah… G… Growen…”

“Sarah Groenewegen,” one actress said for him. “That’s me. I played Sissy. And that’s Jonathan Morris as Cedric and Karen Baldwin, who was Jade. Sidney Paget was played by Matthew Michael.”

Sherlock pointed to each of the actors in turn. “Deborah Challis, director. Sarah Groenewegen, Sissy Hastings. Jonathan Morris, Cedric Hastings. Karen Baldwin, Jade. William, Albert Chaplette. And of course, Matthew Michael, Sidney Paget. Got it.”

“How the FUCK does he retain all that?” Emily asked no one in particular. “I can’t remember half the names of kids I’ve been in the same class as all year!”

“Allow me a moment to consult with my assistants,” Sherlock said, much to the surprise of everyone in the vicinity.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” the director, Deborah, asked in astonishment. “I mean, considering…”

“Why hurry?” Sherlock blinked back. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“B… Matthew’s dead!”

“Yes. He is,” Sherlock replied slowly. “Now, would it be alright by you if I had a minute to figure out who’s responsible?”

Deborah exchanged incredulous looks with her actors. Seemingly unconcerned, Sherlock went and had a seat at the edge of the stage and looked back at Scottie and Emily, patting at the space beside him. Wary at first, the teens came up to the edge and sat down next to the detective. They tucked their hands into the laps and dangled their legs and looked up at Sherlock expectantly.

“You value our input,” Scottie beamed.

“Incorrect. I’m taking advantage of your company, not your ideas. Or the lack thereof.”

Scottie’s smile faded, but only just.

“As I’ve said already,” Sherlock began, “I suspect one of those mentioned to have gone into William’s dressing room at the interval and swapped out the prop crutch with the real one that killed Matthew. Which means that one of them will need to have smuggled it in in order to do so. Now, Emily, I believe that this is more your department. What can you tell me about Deborah’s attire?”

Emily glanced over her shoulder at the director, who, along with the others, was silently watching them. “Uhhh. Well. She’s rocking the skinny jeans. I personally wouldn’t wear a shirt that pink, but with her hair color it’s not all that bad. I probably would’ve finished the look off with brown combat boots, but…”

“Okay, but do you suspect that in what she’s wearing now, Deborah was capable of smuggling in an aluminium crutch?”

“...no,” Emily answered slowly.

Scottie raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure she didn’t have a giant coat on earlier? We’re in London. That’s a thing people typically carry around with them when they go outside.”

“Exactly. Unless it was, say, a peanut, Ms. Challis wouldn’t have been capable of smuggling anything in unseen,” Sherlock nodded. “And Matthew didn’t die of a nut allergy.”

Scottie frowned over at the consulting detective. “Seriously? Are my two cents worth nothing to you?”

“Nut allergy? I… think he’s making an attempt at humor?” Emily said, searching Sherlock’s face skeptically.

“I’m going to talk with Deborah in private,” Sherlock announced. He stood up suddenly and went over to the woman.

“Good chat!” Emily shouted after the man. She and Scottie got to their feet again and trailed after him.

“Scottie, Emily, I want you to search out the prop crutch,” Sherlock instructed as soon as they’d caught up with him again. “Perhaps its location will tell us more about who traded it out. Meanwhile I’ll be with Deborah in her office.”

“Aw, can’t we interview people too?” Emily whined. “I’m so bad at scavenger hunts!”

“What are you talking about? It’ll be fun!” Scottie insisted.

“Alright,” Emily gave in. “You interrogate the cast, Scottie and I will be… backstage somewhere, probably, goofing around, definitely.”

“I expect nothing less from you,” Sherlock confessed.

Scottie and Emily dismissed themselves at the same time as Sherlock ushered Deborah away to the opposite end of the stage as they were headed. The remaining actors had broken into their own separate conversation, like about why no one was calling the police yet and if it was appropriate to just leave Matthew’s body lying there (not that any one of them was up for moving it themselves even if they did have a better place for it to go).

\---

Things were starting to go smoothly between John and Felicia. They shared a laugh about bad customer/patient stories over the course of their meal, and after the first hour agreed to split a dessert in an attempt to extend their time together.

Emily had given up texting John some time ago, which came as a relief because after the first ten minutes of nonstop vibrating John was about ready to shut off his phone altogether. It wasn’t until a slice of chocolate mousse was being brought out with two tiny forks that the mobile buzzed once more. Enough time had passed that John was willing to take a bite of the cake and then check the incoming message from underneath the table.

Dude just got murdered at a murder mystery play - what are the odds!

The second text came in almost immediately after he’d looked:

No but really one of the actors died right in front of us. Sherlock doesn’t think it was an accident. He hasn’t asked for your help but you might want to get down here anyway.

“Work?” Felicia asked.

“What?”

John looked up at her. She was holding her own fork in her mouth even as she spoke.

“Oh, uh, possibly,” John said. “I can probably get out of it though.”

He quickly typed You’re not in danger though? JW into the phone and sent it.

...probably not was Emily’s response. And then, following it several seconds later: Can you come and help out anyway? along with a picture of a smiley face that had shut eyes and was baring its teeth. John had no idea what this meant and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

\---

To say that the kids got distracted in their search for the crutch was an understatement. Their first stop in the treasure hunt was the unlocked costume department: a room not unlike a warehouse filled with rows upon rows of clothing racks and stacked cardboard boxes and poorly lit with fluorescent lights. It was a guilty pleasure closet cosplayer’s dream come true.

“Hurry up, I’m running out of hats to model!” Scottie called out. He was currently rocking a wide-brimmed hat with a pile of fake fruit, roses, and a wad of giant feathers on it. Scottie admired his reflection in a full length mirror from several different angles before tossing the monstrosity aside and trading it out for a 19th century British navy hat.

“Just a minute, I’m trying to fasten the… Oh! Got it!”

Scottie turned to see Emily stumble out from around a row of costume racks. She now had on an enormous mauve gown. The waistline was tight and it buttoned all the way up her top half from the front, while the entirety of her lower half and arms were lost in the fabric dome.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” she began in a too-thick British accent, “I did not expect you to be stopping by at such a late hour. But since you’re here, tell me: what do you think?” Emily gave a little twirl, showing off the gown, and nearly fell over in the motion.

“Madre de dios!” chuckled Scottie.

“What, too much? It’s a tad difficult to walk and... breathe in, but it does quite flatter the figure and the color quite brings out my eyes, wouldn’t you agree?”

Scottie shook his head, still smiling. “You could probably hide a person or two underneath that thing.”

“Oh, most definitely,” Emily agreed, never dropping her atrocious fake accent. “Would you like to see?”

Scottie made a face at her.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve got on at least, like, twelve layers of fabric and these granny panty-looking things. I promise you won’t see anything.”

“...okay fine, let’s do it.”

Emily tried to start lifting the bottom portion of the costume, but before she could even get a good enough grip on the fabric Scottie was already halfway done army crawling beneath her.

“See?” Emily said. She had already completely lost track of where the boy was in the mess of fabric and widened her stance, hoping to not step on him.

“Oi! Miss, you can’t be in here!” a stranger’s voice suddenly bellowed. “This area isn’t open to the public!”

It was a security guard who spoke. He was standing at the open doorway to the costume department and chances were hadn’t seen Scottie at all.

“Oh, good sir, hello,” Emily began weakly. Yes, fake British accent still very much a go. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

The guard frowned. “Yes, well. I’m going to have to ask you to take that off and leave the premises.”

Emily gasped and pressed a hand to her mouth. “Sir! Are you ordering me to undress in front of you?”

Scottie snorted at this from underneath Emily’s dress. She promptly kicked him to shut him up. Unhappy about that, Scottie elbowed her leg back.

“Wh…? What are you doing back here, anyway? Where are you parents?”

Emily glanced around awkwardly. “Well. I, uh…”

“Look, miss, I need you to come with me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Sorry?” the man squinted.

“I’m… pregnant,” Emily lied.

“Excuse you?”

Scottie elbowed her harder.

“Ah, I just felt a kick!” Emily winced. “It’s coming! The baby’s coming!”

“Ma’am! Are you serious?”

“Yes!” Emily held out a desperate hand to him. “Please, take my hand!”

The poor security guard quite obviously had no clue what to make of this situation. He came forward, his face sort of scrunched up in a very much confused manner, but didn’t actually take Emily’s hand.

Scottie had no idea what Emily was doing. Clearly Emily didn’t even know what she was doing. She kicked at Scottie again, hitting his butt with her heel now, and the boy suddenly tumbled out from beneath the poofy dress.

“What the fuck,” the security guard yelled in alarm, jumping back.

“WAH!” Scottie shouted at the man, doing his best newborn baby impression, and then he leapt to his feet and sprinted out of the costume department.

“Oi!” the security guard called after him.

“Run, child of mine! Be free!” Emily sang.

“That’s it, I’m taking you to see the director,” growled the security guard.

“Oh? Am I to become an actress? Mother always said I have the face for it.”

Without bothering to answer her, the guard took Emily firmly by her upper arm and began dragging her out of the room with him.

“H-Hey!” she gasped, struggling to keep up her accent. “That is no way to treat a lady!”

\---

“Found her and a boy goofing off backstage in the costumes,” the guard told Deborah. He had brought Emily to just outside the director’s office, where she’d presumably finished up talking with Sherlock. Her eyes were red, as if she’d just been crying.

“Emily!” Sherlock snapped, balling his fists. “What the hell were you--” But then the detective cut himself short and seemed to calm down a great deal all at once. “Sorry. I tried to pretend to be shocked and appalled by that behavior, I really did,” Sherlock confessed, “but the fact of the matter is I’m hardly surprised at all.”

“Look, this is all a big misunderstanding, I’m sure,” Emily said. She was finally using her usual voice again.

“Oh, great. And you’re not even really British.”

“Oh. Had you convinced, did I?” Emily sounded pleased with herself. “You should hear my Scottish: Merida, a preencess does noht put hair weap-ons on th’ table! Och, but Mum! Et’s jus’ mah bow!”

“Thank you, Bill,” Deborah told the security guard. “I’ve got it from here.”

The guard nodded and took his leave. Emily rubbed at her arm where the man had been holding onto her. “Eat yer haggus, Fergus,” she muttered.

“But really, dear, if you’ve got your normal clothes on underneath that dress, I’d really appreciate it if you stepped out of it and I’ll happily take it back to costume department for you,” Deborah said. “We don’t even let our actors touch the elaborate period pieces unless they’re assigned to them.”

“I left my own dress back in the room,” Emily sighed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take this back myself.”

“Allow me to walk with you,” Sherlock said. “Deborah, thank you for your time.”

“Of course. I… I hope you figure out who did this to Matthew.”

Sherlock took the crook of Emily’s arm in his own and started back towards the costume department. As they walked Emily looked up at the older man distrustfully. “What’s this about?”

“You’re wearing a ballgown. It seemed appropriate.”

“...I suppose. I’m sorry I lost Scottie.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“So you spoke with the director?”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“She was crying,” Emily went on. “Understandably, of course. I was surprised she held out that long. And that the others weren’t. I mean, they all knew the guy.”

“She loved him,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh?”

“But William didn’t share her affections. She didn’t admit so outright, but he knew, and he confronted her about it not all that long ago and expressed how he wasn’t interested. Said he was seeing someone else, but wouldn't say who, just that Deborah knew her. Still, it does explain how a stage actor as awful and as big a drunk as he was managed to be cast.”

“William was a drunk!” Emily gasped in disbelief.

“Couldn’t you tell? During the tennis court scene he even fumbled his lines, and referred to Sissy as Sarah, the actress’ name! Didn't you see all those bruises on the corpse's arms? Proof of how often the prop crutch had missed its mark in the past."

"He was wearing a long sleeved coat. So, no, I'll admit I didn't touch Matthew's freshly dead body to get a look at that."

"William's drunkenness was hardly news, at any rate.”

They were at the costume department now. Sherlock stopped, spotting several of the play’s actors huddled around stage right. “Excuse me,” he told Emily and left her side in favor of theirs. “Ms. Baldwin, a word, please?”

Emily rolled her eyes and went to change back into her own considerably less exciting clothing.

\---

After having ditched his partner in crime, Scottie continued his search for the prop crutch without anyone else to blame for his distractions. He was currently behind the stage, where several large stage pieces were being stored. Even in the dark, there was what he could tell was a large sofa that was blocking most of the walkway. Scottie stepped up onto its cushions and started to climb over the back of it but he paused, hearing voices.

There were two people nearby and coming closer. Scottie couldn’t see them yet and doubted they’d be able to see him in there, but he ducked down into the couch to hide from them regardless.

“I’ve been trying to tell you he’s bad news, right from the start!” a male was saying to whomever was with him. “He fuckin’ bashed Matthew’s head in, you saw ‘im! If that doesn’t make you realize then I don’t know what will.”

“You’re unbelievable!” the other, a woman, retorted.

“But he was a total jackarse, especially to you!”

“That doesn’t mean he’d intentionally kill a man! You saw how messed up he was after!”

“I’d be messed up after too if I killed someone, regardless of whether I meant to or not!” the man breathed. “He was the father of your unborn child, jackarse or otherwise. But that doesn’t change the fact that he wasn’t good for you, and that doesn’t mean that you should keep defending him like this. Especially after... Well, he didn’t treat you right, you know? The way he handled that situation… It was unfair. I wouldn’t have done that to you.”

There was a moment of silence in which the speaker assumedly went in for a kiss. Scottie’s face contorted as an instinctual response to the smacking sound it made. The gesture, however, didn’t seem to be appreciated because the boy then heard the girl push the offender off of her and partially into a thing of fake plants that rustled as soon as he hit them.

“I… For fuck’s sake, Jonathan! Don’t make this about YOU!”

“Sarah, please--”

“Matthew’s dead, and William was involved whether he was the one actually behind the murder or just a pawn in someone else’s scheme! Of course I’m gonna be worked up about it, but that doesn’t mean that you can just… just swoop in and try to fix everything! I told you I needed space after William and I broke it off. Why can’t you respect that?”

“But I’ve always been there for you! I won’t flake out like William did, and you know it!” Jonathan begged. “Sarah, I love you. And we have chemistry together. Even when you’re playing my sister on the stage, I can feel it, and I know you can too. William was a jerk. Even more so when he was drunk, which was always. I want to be with you, Sarah. I don’t care if the baby’s his.”

Sarah scoffed. “You’re the worst. You probably had William framed just because you thought then you’d have a chance at shagging me!”

“What? No! How could I possibly have anything to do with that? William killed Matthew, you saw it! He hit the guy’s head, miles away from the padding and everything - no way that was an accident!!”

“Well, that detective guy that’s hanging around seems to think otherwise. You know, I hope he thinks you did it. Especially after you walked in on us during the interval today and started to go at it. Once he gets an earful of that, no way he won’t think you’re involved!”

“Wh… I was trying to protect you! You thought he was just gonna take you back, just like that? Make up for everything he’d done to you? I saw right through his bullshit! I wasn’t going to let you put up with his behavior.”

“He said he wanted to change!”

“Fuck, Sarah. Guys don’t just change like that!”

Sarah scoffed. “Yeah, maybe. Like how you can’t fucking… take a goddamn hint!”

“Sarah… Sarah, don’t be like that.”

“Oh my GOD! Jonathan, FUCK OFF!”

There was a bit of clanking about and Sarah, presumably, stormed out of the scene. Scottie continued to hold his breath.

So, did this meant that Sarah had a motive for wanting William arrested? If they were a thing and William ditched her after knocking her up… Well, framing someone for murder was a bit extreme as a form of revenge, especially considering the woman seemed to have no qualms with Matthew, and she seemed rather upset about his death. Perhaps she really did care about both of the men. Did that mean that Jonathan had attempted to frame William for murder instead? To get Sarah to turn on him?

Either case felt a bit like a bit of an overreaction to Scottie, but he’d had the urge to kill over less, so he tried not to judge.

Scottie hopped off the couch and circled back around the stage’s backdrop. He quickly spotted Sherlock behind a side curtain. The detective was looming over Karen, the woman who had played Jade. She was about half his height, asian, and still wearing her French maid outfit, although the woman had since taken down her hair.

“Oh, there you are,” Sherlock said, glancing up as Scottie approached them. “You just missed Emily.”

Scottie stopped walked and looked at Karen, who he now saw was sniffling. He shot an accusatory look in Sherlock’s direction in response to this. “Really? Can you not go on a single case without making a woman cry?”

“What?” Sherlock blinked. “Oh, no, that’s not… She’d been having an affair with the victim Matthew. I imagine this isn’t how she expected the relationship to end.”

“Mm. And I just bumped into Jonathan and… Sarah? She played Sissy. That was Sarah, right? Well. In any case, Jonathan was trying to make a move on her, except that Sarah was having none of that shit since I guess she was seeing William until probably recently. Actually I’m pretty sure they were gonna hook up again at intermission. At least that’s what it sounded like what they said happened. And then Jonathan came in and he and William started fighting.”

“I remember that,” Karen chimed in for the first time since Scottie got there. “We could hear them from down the hallway. Deborah, she came in to see what was the matter, and gave Jonathan an earful about it. She was worried that the audience could hear the fighting too.”

“So at least Sarah and Jonathan were definitely in William’s dressing room during the interval,” Sherlock said.

The boy nodded. “Except William was in there at the same time as them so I don’t know how easily either one of them could’ve swapped out the crutch without him noticing.”

“If William’s drunken stupor is anything to judge by, quite easily indeed.”

“Oh, and I don’t know if this is relevant, but also Sarah’s pregnant with William’s son, I guess, which I suppose could explain why William left her the first time.”

“What?” Karen gasped gently. “Sarah’s pregnant?”

“Oh. Um. Surprise?” Scottie made a little show of jazz hands.

Sherlock touched an index finger to his chin. “Sarah and Jonathan’s characters both wore large overcoats at some point in the play,” he thought aloud. “It likely wouldn’t have been hard to smuggle in a real aluminium crutch underneath either of those. Especially since Sarah’s was essentially a giant wad of faux fur.”

Karen searched the detective’s face. “You… You don’t think that one of them did it?”

“I won’t rule it out, but their motives just… don’t seem convincing enough. I’ll have to speak with them myself, of course. See if there’s any more to their story than you picked up on. Karen. Leave us.”

Karen didn’t do anything right away, not even when Sherlock looked at her expectantly. When he shooed her off with a hand she apparently got the message and scurried further backstage without a word.

“Aw, I liked her,” Scottie told Sherlock. “She seemed sweet.”

“You didn’t have to stand here trying to make out words between her onslaught of tears.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Tedious, if anything.”

Scottie made a show of rolling his eyes.

“What’s taking your lady friend so long to change?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Lady friend?” Scottie echoed, wrinkling his nose at the phrasing.

Without explanation, Sherlock marched off towards the costume department once more, this time with Scottie bouncing after him. The man stopped in front of the room and put his hands over both door handles.

“Uh, maybe you should knock before you--”

Ignoring him entirely, Sherlock pushed them open and Scottie was relieved enough for all three of them to find that Emily had indeed finished changing before they got there. The holdup, apparently, was that was she was currently seated on the floor half buried by a mountain of fake food props.

“I thought I saw something that looked like the crutch,” she whimpered and then hefted up a silver floor lamp by its long middle with one hand.

Sherlock didn’t have a response to this. He simply left the room and Emily scrambled to her feet and caught up to him outside of it, leaving behind the mess for Deborah or whomever else to find and deal with.

“The facts:” Sherlock was saying to Scottie as soon as she got to them. “We have two suspects, Deborah the director and Karen who played Jade, who couldn’t have smuggled the crutch in. Two suspects, Sarah who played Sissy and Jonathan who played Cedric, who could have smuggled the crutch in but who didn’t appear to have a motive.”

“Not a very strong motive, anyway,” Scottie shrugged. “Okay, but seriously, these guys are right out of a soap opera or something, which totally would explain murder being a logical, albeit extreme, course of action. Deborah was in love with the sort-of-possibly murderer, William. He rejected her ass because instead he was doing the frickle frackle with Sarah. Except Sarah got pregnant, William I guess freaked and broke off their… whatever they had. Meanwhile Jonathan’s got the hots for Sarah, but he’s a total dick so I understand her repulsion with him. And then there’s Karen, who was sleeping with Matthew, but I can’t think of any reason for her to have wanted to harm him because Karen is a precious cinnamon roll, too pure for this world, that can do no wrong.”

Scottie stopped talking just long enough for him to take a breath. “God, I can’t believe I remembered all that. Straight people are disgusting. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Fuck that’s a lot of suspects and names and shit. Does anyone have a whiteboard? I feel like we could really benefit from a whiteboard right about now,” Emily muttered. “Also I’m great with visual representations, so. You know. We’re talking, like, a big diagram with caricatures of our actors. Oh! They’ve got a board up in the front - you know, with the headshots taped to it!”

Scottie eyed her. “How have you NOT gotten booted out of this theater yet?”

“Don’t forget Matthew and William themselves,” Sherlock chimed in.

Scottie turned his attention back to Sherlock and tapped at his lower lip with an index finger. “Well. Yeah. But I mean, we didn’t go through all of this investigation just to prove that the murderer actually IS the murderer and it only happened because he’s a big drunken idiot. Where’s the fun in that?”

They were all quiet for some time.

And then Sherlock lifted his head with a blank stare. “The victim did it,” he realized slowly.

“What, Cluedo again? Are we really going to get into this NOW?” Scottie frowned. “I will fight you. I will probably lose, but I will fight you nonetheless.”

“No, the victim did it!” Sherlock repeated, louder now and jumping to his feet.

“I heard you the first time and saying it at twice the volume and with that much conviction doesn’t change the fact that it’s physically impossible for the outcome of the game to have been--”

“The victim! Matthew! He swapped out the prop crutch with a real one! That’s how no one else could have done it!”

Scottie considered this quietly for a moment before he, too, let out an thoughtful “the victim did it.”

“The victim did it!” Sherlock smiled inappropriately.

Scottie hopped up as well and bounced in place. “The victim did it!” he said.

Emily crossed her arms unhappily. “Oh. My God. Will you two SHUT THE FUCK UP before I get a migraine?”

Sherlock, who clearly had no such intentions, grabbed Emily’s shoulders and let out yet another cheerful “The victim did it!”

“I HEARD YOU THE FIRST HOWEVER MANY TIMES.”

“But wait,” Scottie stopped jumping suddenly, “why did the victim do it?”

Sherlock let go of Emily and turned to face him. “Well. The victim didn’t mean to die from it. He did mean to do it, though.”

“So the victim accidentally did it?”

“I am not above kicking you in the shins,” Emily told them both.

“As Sidney, Matthew wore a long overcoat, not dissimilar to mine, so he could have done it,” Sherlock started to explain for her.

“What? So he committed suicide?”

“Mm, no, there are much easier ways - if you do want to do so dramatically live on stage. The thing is aluminium is actually quite light. There's no guarantee that a strike from an aluminium crutch would actually kill someone. But think about it. The bruises on Matthew's arm. William's unprofessional behaviour, the drinking, the affairs. Matthew had already complained to Deborah, the director, about William, but, because she was in love with William, she hadn't done anything about it. And that was it. Do you get it now?”

Emily made a face. “I’m… hearing you, and I see where the whole ‘the victim did it’ thing comes in, but…”

Now it was Scottie’s turn to look annoyed. “Emily, look: Matthew didn’t want to kill himself. He wanted to get William fired. He'd gone into William's dressing room with the real aluminum crutch hidden in his jacket and swapped them out. Either William wasn’t there at the same time or, if he was, he was too distracted fucking around with Sarah or starting a brawl with Jonathan.”

“Matthew’s plan was for William,” Sherlock continued for him, “as usual, to hit him with the crutch, not knowing that the rubber aluminium crutch was now a real aluminium crutch. He presumably hoped it would break his arm or cause enough damage that he could sue the theatre or Deborah and ensure that William was sacked. But William, perhaps because of the fight with Jonathan, was even more drunk than usual and swung the crutch too high, striking Matthew across the head and accidentally killing him.”

Emily thought about this for probably longer than necessary before making a very obvious ‘ohhhhh’ face and ultimately agreeing, “So the victim did it.”

Sherlock nodded, perhaps looking more pleased with himself than was necessary. “The victim did it.”

“I’m gonna tell John about it,” Emily said, phone already out and halfway finished typing the message, if Scottie knew her at all.

Sherlock plucked the phone from her grasp and announced that instead he was going to be the one to catch his flatmate up on the evening’s events, and that perhaps once John was finished with whatever, he’d bring the story to Lestrade.

Emily made quite a show of slapping her hands back down at her sides.

“We never did find that prop crutch, though,” Scottie sighed.

Emily shrugged. “I mean. It doesn’t really matter now. That was probably just Sherlock’s way of keeping us busy while he figured out what had happened for himself.”

“Oh, I know. For sure. But like. I still feel like we were given all of one task, and we couldn’t even do that right. You know?”

Glancing around the stage, Emily’s eyes eventually fell on second level of the stage that went across the top of it like a catwalk with railings. A lot of the stage’s lights were attached to the bottom of this.

“I mean,” she started slowly, “technically we didn’t get to searching the entire theater for it. Sherlock thinks he solved the case, but who can rule out the vitality of the prop crutch until we actually manage to locate it?”

Scottie followed her gaze up to the stage’s ceiling. “Race you there,” he said under his breath.

Pausing just long enough to make eye contact, the teens took off across the stage, giggling uncontrollably for unknown reasons. Sherlock had all but forgotten about them as he waited for John to pick up the other line.

\---

John and Felicia had been walking side by side down the block, going nowhere in particular, when John’s phone went off yet again. He apologized, took several steps away from Felicia as to not subject her to his taking the call, and then flipped the cell phone open violently.

“Emily! I told you to stop interrupting my date!” John hissed into the receiver right away. “Just WHAT is so important that you need to get me involved?”

“Oh. I didn’t expect to get past your voicemail. Well, since you asked,” came Sherlock’s smooth reply on the other line. “I don’t know what you picked up on already (it’s to my understanding that Emily was rather rudely texting you throughout the entire first act), but we’ve been to see Terror by Night at some terrible little theater on the Strand. The play itself was mediocre but there was a murder! Live on stage!”

“Okay, so you accidentally got involved in another case. Why is this my problem?”

“Because, John, I haven’t got time to tell the police what happened, so when you’re finished having dinner or whatever it is with… Sarah? I need you to take this message to--”

“Sherlock.” John interrupted. “Sherlock. Look at all the fucks I give right now. Please. Just look around you. Count them. There are none. Goodnight.”

There was a moment of silence when John was on the verge of hanging up before: “J-John! Don't be like that, I need a favor!”

“What about Scottie and Emily? Aren't they with you?”

“Technically yes, but they apparently ran off when I went to go talk to someone right before I called and now I’ve lost track of them. Oh, wait, just kidding - I see them up in the rafters now. I... Oh gosh, what is that boy doing now? He better be careful up... Scottie! SCOTTIE! YOU GET DOWN FROM THERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!

“Sherlock, I can't be worried about this right now…” John breathed.

“You're right. I know. He probably won't die from a fall at that height.”

“Well now I'm starting to worry!”

“Anyway,” the detective went on, “we’ve solved the case, so you don’t need to worry about that bit. But listen carefully, because I’m going to tell you exactly what happened, and I need you to take that information to Lestrade. Don’t worry, it’s quite simple. Detective Sidney Paget, played by the actor Matthew--”

However, John hung up on Sherlock before he could even make much of a dent in his story. After a moment the mobile began to buzz again in John’s hand, and the man blocked this call. Seconds later he received two texts from Sherlock:

Bad connection? SH

 

I’ll leave it in a voicemail then, and you can share that with Lestrade. SH

Sighing, John shoved his cell phone into a back pocket and went back up to where Felicia was still waiting for him.

“Is everything alright?” the woman asked.

“Yeah. That was the flatmate. He just needed a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“The kind that would require me to leave,” answered John. And then, quickly, so as to not give the wrong idea: “Also the kind I'm not willing to do until much later.”

He smiled at Felicia, and she smiled back and they continued walking.

\---

Meanwhile, back at Charing Cross Theatre, Scottie really was currently dangling from a series of cords hanging off a light about the center of the stage.

“DON’T LET GO!” Emily cried out to him from where she was in the rafters.

“WHY THE FUCK WOULD I LET GO?!” choked Scottie.

“I... I don't know, that's just the most helpful advice I have right now!”

“WELL IT’S NOT VERY HELPFUL!”

Sherlock was standing some feet below Scottie, looking in that moment as if he were assessing whether he were more helpful where he was or if he could try to climb to Scottie in time. The former ended up being his only option, though, because seconds later the boy lost his grip on the bundle of cords and went falling downward. Emily let out a shriek and immediately pressed her hands over her mouth. Scottie managed to fall directly on top of Sherlock, knocking them both to the floor in the process.

The two yelped upon impact. Sherlock just got body slammed into the wooden stage by all of the boy’s weight, whereas Scottie, although slightly more cushioned than he would’ve been, still had a fairly hard hit and landed partially on top of his wrist.

“FUCK! Ow, shit, mmm my wrist... My wrist is dying... I think I'm dying,” he kept moaning, clinging to that hand with his other. Scottie rolled off of Sherlock onto the floor and faced the ceiling with tightly shut eyes.

The consulting detective sat upright and made to reach for Scottie’s arm. “Let me see it…” Taking Scottie’s wrist between his hands, Sherlock moved it around a bit and Scottie’s eyes shot open with a pained gasp. “Well it's definitely not broken,” decided Sherlock. “You may have sprained it.”

“Oh, God, you're going to have to cut it off won't you?”

“Don't be melodramatic.”

Scottie looked away and appeared to be forcing his own eyes to well up with tears. “I'll never write again…”

“No one's cutting anything off,” Sherlock insisted.

“I'm too young to be an amputee!” the boy wailed back.

“Scottie.”

“Oh no.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “...What now?”

“I see the light. It's warm, and... tinted blue and orange”

“Yes, those are stage lights. We are in a theater. They’ve always been there. In fact, that’s what you fell from.”

“I… I don't think I'm gonna make it.”

“You're fine.”

Scottie swallowed hard and met Sherlock’s eyes. “It's okay, you don't have to lie to make it easier. I can handle the cold, hard truth.”

“Scottie, you're fine.”

“Emily is going to be so mad at me... We always said we'd go together in some really badass explosion or shoot out or something…”

Sherlock turned his head away. “For fuck's sake,” he muttered softly.

“Now she'll be all alone in this cruel empty world... Sherlock. Please, tell her... Tell her it's not her fault. And that I wasn't kidding about that bet and even in the event of my death she still owes me five pounds.”

“You can tell her yourself; you're going to be fine.”

“And you!” the boy suddenly gasped. “Sherlock... Oh, Sherlock.... You taught me so much about... not giving a fuck, and how siblings are the worst…”

“Look, this is all very touching, but--” Sherlock tried, but was interrupted when Scottie reached out and took Sherlock’s face between his hands, pulling it slightly closer to himself. So evidently his wrist couldn’t have been that damaged.

“Promise me that you'll shower and brush your teeth every day after I'm gone!” Scottie wheezed.

Frowning, Sherlock grabbed the boy’s wrists and pushed them away. Just then Emily came running over from stage left, shouting “Scottie! Are you okay?!”

The boy turned his head away from her. “Emily! No, I didn’t want you to see me like this!”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock informed her, “he’s just being ridiculous. Please make this stop immediately.”

Emily nodded. “On it.” Then, without warning, she suddenly threw herself down upon Scottie as one might a bean bag chair.

“Emily,” Sherlock warned.

“HEY!” Scottie gasped. “Excuse you, I am DYING here, that is RUDE!”

“Not unless I give you express permission you aren’t,” Emily told him matter-of-factly.

Scottie struggled to push Emily off of himself by any means necessary, but when some time passed and still she wouldn’t budge, he sprawled out with his arms at his sides in defeat.

“So what now?” Emily asked Sherlock, evidently satisfied with this scenario. “Back to Baker Street?”

Scottie lifted his head slightly. “There’s a dead guy still center stage. Aren’t we waiting for someone to do something about that?”

“The police have been phoned and are assumedly on their way,” Sherlock informed him. “But afterwards I was thinking we could get ice cream.”

“Okay. I can get behind that.”


End file.
